


Touch my Soul

by OnceSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, First Kiss, First Meeting, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Jealous John, Johnlock Roulette, Lack of Communication, Lack of emotional Awareness, Letters, Love Confessions, M/M, Married John, Mutual Pining, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Slow Burn, Soulmates, They love each other so much, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, cases, exponential increase in angst and fluff, no moriarty, overuse of cheesy lines, so so slow, some canon scenes but even gayer, that get's resolved eventually, they are both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 10:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceSherlock/pseuds/OnceSherlock
Summary: Sherlock has never been interested in finding his soulmate, until the day he meets John Watson.But what happens when you are one of the few people lucky enough to find your person, and he's married to someone else?The moment only lasts a couple of seconds but it could've just as well been a lifetime.





	1. Chapter 1

'The ties that bind us are sometimes impossible to explain. They connect us even after it seems like the ties should be broken. Some bonds defy distance and time and logic; because some ties are simply meant to be.' (Meredith Grey)

___

_Epilogue_

“Did anything happen yesterday?”

“Of course nothing happened between us. John is... he is –“

“Your person,” Mrs. Hudson says.

“He’s much more than that.” 

Sherlock starts to think about the way John cares for his patients, about how he treats victims’ bereaved with a kindness Sherlock could never imitate, how he saved Sherlock’s life over and over again, risking his own in the process, how he’s the only person in the world willing to accept Sherlock for who he truly is. Words don’t seem to do him justice, but Sherlock tries anyway.

“He’s the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I’ve ever been fortunate enough to meet. He’s the best man I’ve ever known,” he concludes.

“Oh Sherlock!”

“He’s also married.”

“I know. But there’s one thing I want you to remember, dear. A bond between souls is ancient, older than the planet. It dissolves the difference between the person we want to be with and the person we are meant to be with and unites them in one.” Mrs. Hudson looks at him expectantly.

“I don’t know what you’re hinting at,” Sherlock has to admit.

“Some day you will.” His landlady smiles at him. “And I hope I will live to see it.”

___

_January 2010_

“I’ve told you that I won’t be at home tonight, haven’t I?” John asks, taking a bite from his buttered toast. 

“I don’t think you have,” Mary replies. She turns over the page of the paper she’s currently reading before taking a sip of her coffee. 

It has become a routine of theirs, reading the newspaper during breakfast. For lunch, they’re both at work most of the time, and during dinner they usually watch whatever’s on the telly. Mary looks up from the local news with a raised eyebrow.

“I haven’t? I’m meeting an old friend from Bart’s. I ran into him the other day and he asked me about getting a drink after work sometime. I thought I’d said.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I wanted to spend the evening finishing my book, anyway.” 

John nods, then gets up quickly with a glance at his watch. They usually leave for the clinic together, but on Fridays Mary’s got her day off. 

“We’ll see how it goes, hopefully there won’t be any embarrassing silences,” John says while placing his mug into the sink. He picks up his lunch bag, crosses the kitchen to where Mary is still reading and presses a light kiss onto her temple.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she calls after him, not looking up.

John closes the door without replying and immediately shivers. It has started to rain outside, and the cold winter air leaves the free skin of his neck in goose-bumps. He quickly turns the coat collar up against the wind and heads for the railway station. In summer he often cycles to work, but the British winter weather has made that unbearable a couple of months ago. The closeness to work was one of the reasons why he and Mary decided to buy the house in 2006, not even half a year after their first encounter. When she was introduced as the new nurse at his clinic, something between them had just clicked. They started dating in October of 2006 and got married after a rushed engagement in the summer of the following year. The only down-side to their otherwise perfect suburban London life is the fact that they’re not each other’s persons – their souls are not bonded by fate. 

Finding your soulmate is something most people longed for growing-up in John’s infancy, making it specifically hard for young teenage boys to encounter a meaningless love-affair. John grew up with only a few persons in his immediate environment – neither his parents nor his grandparents were soulmates – and he didn’t feel like he was missing out. By the time he joined the army, the Western world’s perception of love had already changed significantly. Less and less people found their significant others, leaving them lonely and depressed until they decided to screw the universe and find someone suitable off their own bat. Trying to stop a major wave of depression, the government finally declared that two people who aren’t soulmates can get married without the previously obligatory psychological consultancy, basing their change in course on a scientific study from 1986. The new law caused a flood of marriages between non-persons who finally found the convincing reason to unite in spite of not being told so by the universe. After that, cases of soulmates kept getting rarer and rarer, despite the efforts of several “old-fashioned” online dating sites proclaiming to be able to find your person within fourty-eight hours. 

For John, none of that mattered. He was glad to be away from London for a while, enjoying the thrill of danger and the knowledge of doing life-saving work in Afghanistan. He had a string of meaningless lovers during high school as well as during his time at Bart’s, but he never longed to find his soulmate in the ocean of lost souls in the world. For some reason John always despised the idea that some higher power should dictate whom he’s supposed to love. That is, until he got shot and forced to return home. 

The months following his invalidity were the hardest of his life. He sought a purpose in the dull routine of his existence, failing to return back from the war with his body and soul alike. Only when he started working as a doctor again he felt useful, if only for the sake of his patients. He started thinking that his person would give him a purpose in life, and even signed up to one of the bloody websites. It was in that time when he wished to find his person for the first time in his life that he met Mary, instead. Upon first laying eyes on her, he wished to feel the sensation of their souls bounding when he shook her hand – but nothing happened. After a couple of weeks of consideration, he decided to take matters into his own hands. How likely was it that he ever found his person, anyway? Wasn’t he too old already? Did he really want to remain lonely for the rest of his life because of a childhood fairy-tale? 

He once heard word of a couple in Brighton who met in their late 70s, when their first spouses had already deceased. They found out because the man helped the woman out of the bus offering her his hand. Albeit being an inspiring love story, John refused to believe that the same would happen to him anytime soon. He started dating Mary, and they got along great. She made him laugh more than anyone and tried to understand the struggle of returning to civilian life after a period of war and danger. Gradually, they fell in love, not caring about the universe having different plans for their future. They only mentioned the fact that they’re non-persons once in their blossoming relationship, and never talked of it again.

Jogging down the stairs to catch his train as if it were any other Friday, John cannot know that this day will be the beginning of more than just the weekend. 

___

Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, tucking at the curls in frustration. He hasn’t been having the best day when Mike Stamford enters the lab at six in the evening. He unsuccessfully tried to convince Lestrade that the series of suicides threatening the dull idyll of crime-free London is, instead, a series of cold-blooded, well-planned murders. However, Scotland Yard’s incompetence has once again succeeded Sherlock’s already low expectations, leaving him sulking in his lab with a couple of unimportant experiments to pass the time, waiting for the next strike of the killer.

Even though he doesn’t take his eyes off the microscope in front of him, he can feel Stamford staring at him. 

“What’s the matter, Mike?” Sherlock sighs audibly. “Don’t you see that I’m busy?”

“Er, yes, I’m sorry, Sherlock,” the doctor stammers. “I’ll be gone in a minute. You see, I’m meeting an old friend of mine, whom I haven’t seen in ages, but...”

“Please,” Sherlock interrupts, “Skip forward to your point.”

He looks up briefly to see the round face in front of him reddening. Whether it’s because of anger or embarrassment, Sherlock can’t tell. It’s not like he doesn’t like Stamford – on the contrary – he considers him one of the least annoying professors at Bart’s, but being rude to the wrong people has always been one of Sherlock’s strong suits. 

“Yes, anyway... I wanted to ask whether you still need that slide of my presentation from last week? You said you needed if for your work, so I put it on a flash drive.” He places a metal-grey flash drive onto the lab table, smiling quickly before turning away.

There’s a brief stab of guilt somewhere in Sherlock’s abdomen. He already forgot about the presentation in light of his more interesting, officially-not-his-case case. “Thank you, I think I can get good use out of it.”

He puts the drive into his pockets and returns his attention to the petri dish in front of him, when a knock on the door and a man entering makes Sherlock look up and forget his string of thoughts completely. 

He walks in carefully, as if unsure whether he’s allowed to. His short blond-greyish hair forms a visual contrast to his black jacket and dark trousers, and he starts scanning the lab with his deep blue eyes. Sherlock doesn’t recall seeing him at Bart’s before, or anywhere else in London, for that matter. The man has something about him that Sherlock doesn’t think he’d forget.

“Hey, Mike. Are you ready?” He quickly glances at Sherlock and their eyes meet. “Or should I wait outside?”

“No, it’s fine, John. I’m sorry, I was just about to come pick you up,” Mike replies. He turns towards the stranger, not making amends to introduce him to Sherlock. 

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine,” Sherlock hears himself say. 

Stamford, obviously surprised to be asked a favour by Sherlock, starts searching his pockets. “Sorry, it’s in my coat.” 

“Here, use mine,” the man named John says. He comes closer to the table, fishes his phone out of his pocket and stretches it out in his hand. Sherlock mutters a quick ‘Thank you’ while walking over to accept the mobile phone, his eyes glued to the its owner. When he takes the phone there’s a spark of electricity in the air, but it’s gone before the other man notices.

“This is the friend I just mentioned, Dr. John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes, a colleague of mine.” 

Sherlock quickly types away a message into the phone while simultaneously deducing the man in front of him. The words fly across Dr. Watson’s body and Sherlock reads them with practiced ease. 

_Ex-army doctor. Invalided home. Works at a clinic. Married. Non-persons. Alcoholic brother. Doubtful about the forthcoming evening’s success._

“Nice to meet you,” Mike’s friend says while stretching out his right hand. Something holds Sherlock back from taking it, so he places the phone into the offered hand, instead. Dr. Watson clears his throat, his other hand briefly clenches into a fist, and retrieves the phone back into his pocket.

“Are you a chemist?” he asks. 

Sherlock, surprised at the sudden interest in his field of work, finds that he doesn’t want the doctor to think he’s merely a chemist.

“I studied chemistry, yes. But my work is more...” he searches for the right term, “practical.”

“Seems quite theoretical to me,” Dr. Watson replies, shrugging his shoulders and looking around the lab once more.

“Well, I cannot say that I have the experiences of an army doctor in my vitae, but this is mere pastime. I’m waiting for an important call.”

He can see the look of confusion on the other man’s face, an expression he’s gotten to know quite well ever since he started deducing people out loud. The lie about the call is only half-false; he’s sure that Lestrade will call for his help any minute.

“Oh, Mike told you about me?”

Stamford shakes his head slightly, his lips twisting up into a smile Sherlock doesn’t miss.  
“Not a word.”

“Then how do you know about –“ 

They are interrupted by Molly bringing Sherlock coffee. He comments on her lipstick and the momentary lack thereof, all the while watching Dr. Watson from the corner of his eyes. Once she has left, Mike and his friend make amends of leaving as well.

“Have fun at the pub,” Sherlock can’t stop himself from saying. He’s still looking at the ex-army doctor. There’s something about this man that he finds intriguing, something he can’t seem to deduce – more like an intuition.

“Thanks,” Dr. Watson replies, the confusion still present in his features. The two of them head out, leaving Sherlock with an unknown sensation of having missed an important opportunity. He stays in the lab watching the door, waiting for something to happen, until the coffee Molly brought has gone cold.

___

John gulps down the rest of his beer, trying to overplay the silence stretching between him and his former friend. Even though he and Mike used to be pretty good friends in their twenties, the different directions of their careers and the resulting long time apart caused their friendship to find its end years ago. Now he wishes he had stayed at home with Mary, watching an old Western over dinner or finishing one of his James Bond novels. Instead, he met a strange young man with a pretty rude attitude and ridiculous cheekbones who has been stuck in his head for the last hour. John lets out a quiet sigh and looks down at the empty glass of Guinness in front of him, trying to come up with a topic for the slow-going conversation with Mike.

“How long have you been back from Afghanistan?” Mike asks.

“Oh, that must have been almost four years ago. I’m sorry I didn’t call, I was a bit…out at first, you know? Getting back on track took me a while and when I finally did I had a full-time job and Mary to keep me busy.” 

It’s a lame excuse for not phoning his friend but going by their current situation he wouldn’t have minded dragging out their encounter even further. John feels guilty at the realisation but having small talk and trying to break the ice with acquaintances is something he never enjoyed attempting.

“The clinic I work at is actually not too far from Bart’s, you just take the tube from...” 

John lets the sentence trail off when something in the corner of his eyes catches his attention. From his seat close to the window he has a good view of the other side of the street, where several police cars are currently parking in front of one of the houses. One of the officers is securing police tape in front of the pavement, closing it off from the public. The chaotic scene of people running around, carrying boxes full of supplies from each car to the building is not what makes John pause, though. It’s the back of a tall, curly-haired man in a long coat, apparently arguing with one of the officers. Mr. Holmes lifts his hands up in frustration before ruffling them through his hair. For some reason John’s mouth twitches up at the gesture.

“John?” Mike’s concerned voice brings John back to this side of the road.

“Sorry, Mike. I was just... I know someone who lives in that building over there. I think I should better check out if they’re okay.” John doesn’t know why the lie came so easy from his lips. 

“Oh, of course. Do you want me to accompany you?” Mike smiles at him, and John feels another stab of guilt.

“No, no it’s fine. Maybe we can repeat this some other time? I’ll call you,” he says while getting back into his jacket. He pulls a couple of bills from his purse and gives Mike a reassuring nod before leaving the dusty pub.

When John arrives on the other side of the street, he realises this might not have been his best idea yet. Upon approaching the police tape, one of the officers looks at him questioningly and starts coming closer. He’s followed by Mr. Holmes who appeared from out of nowhere, a look of surprise on his face that only lasts briefly before returning to a blank expression. John awaits them from the other side of the tape, desperately trying to come up with a suitable reason for his presence.

“I’m sorry, mate, no civilians today,” the officer says. His grey hair is sticking out in several directions and John figures that he’s probably got better things to do right now, but his voice is polite nonetheless.

“Er, I was just...”

“He’s with me,” Mr. Holmes interrupts. Both John and the officer give him astonished looks. 

“You know him, Sherlock?”

“Yes, this is Dr. John Watson. Dr. Watson, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade.” John briefly shakes the man’s hand from across the tape – at least he’s got the manners to do so. 

“I asked him to meet me here for assistance. He’s a doctor. Don’t give me that look, Lestrade, you know Anderson won’t work with me.”

“You can’t just bring people yourself, Sherlock. We’ve got a qualified team here!”

“Do you need me or not?” Mr. Holmes replies, sharing a look with the DI that tells John that they both know the answer already. 

“Fine, but you need to fill out some paperwork later,” the man tells John before pacing towards the building behind them.

“What was that?” John can’t help asking. He doesn’t even know what happened at the crime scene. Does Mr. Holmes really expect him to help? Is he some sort of inspector himself?

“Just play along, I’ll fill you in later.” 

Mr. Holmes lifts the police tape, and before even having consciously made the decision John suddenly finds himself on the other side of the tape, following the large steps of a man he literally just met to a crime scene he doesn’t know anything about.

They are stopped in front of the entrance by a man with a ferret-looking face in a coverall. 

“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again,” Mr. Holmes says. It’s obvious from his tone that he’s not particularly fond of the officer.

“It’s a crime scene, I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?” the man asks in a nasal voice. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and visibly lengthens his spine, trying to make himself look taller. 

Mr. Holmes takes a deep breath before replying: “Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?”

The expression on the other man’s face shifts to blatant anger. “Oh don’t pretend you worked that out, somebody told you that.”

“Your deodorant told me that. It’s for men.” 

John furrows his brows at the contradictory statement and turns his attention from one man to the other whilst they continue their uncomfortable conversation about Mr. Anderson’s infidelity with one of the female sergeants. John feels like an intruder, but the two men don’t seem to care about his presence, shooting insults back and forth without a second thought.

“And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees,” Mr. Holmes concludes before passing the officer whose face has gone white.

John, still too confused to add anything of importance, follows him inside. Inside the hallway, they are offered matching coveralls, which Mr. Holmes declines with a dismissive wave of his hand. John shrugs and takes one of the coveralls from an eye-rolling inspector. Once he and Mr. Holmes are alone on the staircase, he sees his chance at getting a quick overview of the ridiculous situation he finds himself in.

“Mr. Holmes, a word.”

“Sherlock, please.” The tall man turns around, looking down at him from his position three steps higher.

“Yes, Sherlock. What do you want me to do up there? I don’t even know what kind of a crime has been committed.”

“Murder, of course,” he states matter-of-factly. “Have you been following the news lately? There has been a string of ‘suicides’ in London, at least according to the police and the public. Even though Scotland Yard tried their best to shut their eyes from the truth, it has been clear to me from the start that they are dealing with homicides. With this one there was found a note, apparently, and that’s why we’re here. So, will you help me?”

John nods. “Yeah, sure. I’ll do my best.”

Before he can ask anything else, Sherlock is already heading up the remaining stairs. John follows his fluttering coat upstairs, wondering about the last time his body was so filled with the anticipation of adrenaline.

___

His fingers are dribbling on the table, a clear sign of impatience and nervousness. Even though he knows there’s objectively no reason to be any of said things, Sherlock can’t get himself to stop. He keeps checking Angelo’s front door, waiting for the small bell to make its distinct sound, but for now John Watson is nowhere to be seen. After the quite successful evening he shared with the doctor yesterday, Sherlock was eager to include him further on solving the case. John’s attitude towards shooting out compliments seems to be one of the reasons why Sherlock decided to keep him around. He hasn’t figured out the remaining reasons, yet. 

After John’s departure at the crime scene the other night, Sherlock managed to find the missing (pink) suitcase within a couple of hours. Obviously, none of Scotland Yard’s officers were of any help, but that didn’t keep Sherlock from strolling around the nearest area of the crime scene by himself. Once he found the suitcase, he immediately sent out two texts; one to the potential serial killer and one to John, asking him to meet him at Angelo’s tonight. Getting John’s number was ridiculously easy, but when John didn’t respond, he added a short _Could be dangerous, Sh_ based on his assumption about John’s attraction to danger. The reply came within minutes.

When the ringing finally resounds with the door, Sherlock oddly feels something twist in chest.

“Hey, Sherlock. Sorry I kept you waiting,” John says while taking off his jacket to reveal a hideous grey jumper. He sits down on the bench seat next to Sherlock, causing a cloud of a different cologne than yesterday to enhance the air.

“It’s fine, I’ve only been here a couple of minutes,” Sherlock reassures him.

“So, what’s your plan?”

Sherlock briefly explains about finding the suitcase and his subsequent text message to Jennifer’s missing phone.

“So we’ve basically got a date with the murderer?”

“Well, I don’t want to get caught up on technicalities, but yes.”

“But the killer isn’t just gonna ring the doorbell, is he? He’d need to be mad.”

“He has killed four people,” Sherlock replies.

Their conversation is interrupted by Angelo, offering them anything on the menu for free. “On the house, for you and your date,” he adds.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Obviously not many people share his skills of deduction, but even Angelo should be able to see the gold wedding band on John’s finger that’s notable in its absence on Sherlock’s.

“Do you want to eat?” he asks John.

John, however, feels the need to correct the manager. Sherlock introduces the two of them, but Angelo continues to ignore John’s denial by bringing them a tea-light to the table. After John has finally decided on the most boring dish on the menu, he starts questioning Sherlock further.

“Well, Sherlock. I don’t recall you telling me what you do?”

For a moment, Sherlock is confused by the nature of the question, before he realises John is asking about his profession. He tries to ignore the fact that his name sounds strangely different from John’s lips and shifts in his seat.

“What do you think?”

“Well, you’re definitely not a police inspector, that much I can tell. I’d say private detective, but the police don’t go to private detectives.”

He’s smarter than he looks, Sherlock thinks.

“I’m a _consulting_ detective. The only one in the world, I invented the job.”

“You invented it?”

“Yes. You see, my mind rebels at stagnation. I abhor the dull routine of existence; I crave for mental exaltation. That’s why I’ve created my own particular profession.” He watches John’s face light up.

“And what does ‘consulting’ detective mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth – which is always – they consult me,” Sherlock concludes. 

“I’d say the police don’t consult amateurs, but I saw what you were able to do yesterday...” 

“Mmh, that’s quite correct.” For some reason Sherlock feels heat rising to his cheeks. Maybe Angelo should regulate the restaurant’s heating every once in a while.

They continue their conversation about Sherlock’s profession, but shift to John’s after a while. He tells him about his army days and his work at the clinic. He also briefly mentions his wife, Mary, whom he met at the clinic a couple of years ago. Sherlock finds it harder and harder to focus on 22 Northumberland Street, since the man next to him appears to be so much more interesting. Once John’s pasta has arrived, he asks Sherlock about his (non-existent) romantic life.

“So you aren’t with your person, then?” It sounds more like a statement than a question.

“No. I don’t even think I have one,” Sherlock admits.

“Well, technically everyone does.” John clears his throat. “Most just fail to find each other.” Sherlock can tell that it bothers the married man more than he’d like to admit that he hasn’t found his, either.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” John continues.

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area,” Sherlock replies and turns towards the window.

“Mmh. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way?” John asks after a short pause.

“I know it’s fine.” Sherlock isn’t sure where this conversation is heading.

“So you’ve got a boyfriend then?” John asks while doing a very distracting gesture involving his lips.

“No. You see, I’m not looking for any sort of relationship; I consider myself married to my work.”

“Oh, so you’re unattached? That’s good.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to add to that. He’s spared any further questions once he catches sight of a yellow car approaching the opposite side of the road. He gives John a knowing look before he starts to wind his scarf back around his neck. John looks at him, then outside, then at him again.

“Sherlock, is that...?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his body already glowing with anticipation. “The game is on.”

___

“Okay, that was ridiculous,” John pants, still trying to catch his breath. He leans back further against the cold wall of Sherlock’s flat at 221B Baker Street. His tall companion is right next to him, his breath still heightened as well.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan”

John can’t help himself, he starts to giggle. Sherlock, quite surprisingly, joins him and together they laugh about the wild run across London they just shared. 

Even though the cab was a false lead, John enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rushing through his veins again after so many years. How is it even possible to feel so comfortable around someone you’ve only known for a day? John tries to think back to the day he met Mary, but it was all fussy for him then. He isn’t even sure he remembers everything correctly.

“That wasn’t just me,” he tells Sherlock. 

They’re still leaning against the wall, both panting and giggling and enjoying each other’s company, when John’s phone buzzes. He fishes it out of his trousers, and quickly scans Mary’s text asking him when he’ll be home.

He types back with slow fingers, silently cursing himself for never learning it properly.

“I should probably get going now,” he says to Sherlock and starts turning away slightly.

He’s stopped by Sherlock’s right hand grabbing his wrist. “You should probably w– “ but Sherlock doesn’t get to finish whatever he was about to say.

The moment their hands touch, everything happens at once. John feels a tingling in his wrist slowly spreading through his whole body. Once it reaches his heart, John is certain that it will jump out of his chest. His heart is suddenly filled with an ocean of emotions he doesn’t yet realise aren’t only his. His phone drops to the floor. For a moment he’s sure to hear Sherlock’s heartbeat as clearly as his own, beating in the exact same rhythm. He turns towards Sherlock and looks up at him; into his light, green eyes, and he doesn’t see anything else. There’s a bond growing between them, stronger and more intimate than anything John has ever felt. 

The moment only lasts a couple of seconds, but it could’ve just as well been a lifetime.

After too many (or not enough) seconds, it’s over. Realisation hits John earlier than Sherlock, who’s still staring at him with rapidly blinking eyes. John pulls his hand away from Sherlock’s and kneels down to pick up his phone.

Bloody hell. _Bloody hell!_

“Jesus! What just happened? Sherlock, was that...?”

He can see the detective’s mind slowly returning to the present. “Y... yes, John. I felt it, too. That was – “ 

John feels Sherlock’s eyes on him for a second, and he can hear the shifting of his voice before he continues.

“– interesting.” 

John closes his eyes, unable to fully comprehend what just happened. His ears are ringing and his fingers feel numb. Suddenly his knees turn weak and for a moment he’s sure he’s going to faint, so he takes a couple of deep breaths. This can’t be true. His person cannot be the man next to him; a self-proclaimed consulting detective living in London with him this entire time; an arrogant, probably-mad, clever and fascinating man who’s certainly _not_ his wife. 

Oh god, his wife! 

“I, I gotta go. I gotta go to Mary,” John manages to get out, opening his eyes to see the expression of shock and confusion on Sherlock’s face before he manages to conceal it. 

“John, please. Stay.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I can’t do this...” John turns towards the door, trying to ignore the feeling in his gut that wants him to stay. He opens the door with a shaking hand, and leaves. 

He doesn’t look back.

___

_February 2010_

For a reason Sherlock doesn’t quite understand, he finds himself facing a serial killer with a toy gun and two bottles at Roland-Kerr College two days after finding out he’s been wrong about one thing all his life. Two days since he last saw John in the hallway of Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He’s been trying to tell himself that it’s for the best that John doesn’t want to see or talk to him anymore. At least this way Sherlock can continue The Work without anyone interfering or stopping him from doing potentially dangerous things.

_Like following a murderer to an abandoned building without telling anyone._

“I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you...” the cabbie says. He’s looking at Sherlock intensely, his eyes glowing. “... so clever. But what’s the point in being clever if you can’t prove it? Still the addict.”

Sherlock starts unscrewing the lid of the bottle he knows contains the right pill. He takes out the capsule and examines it more closely. Yep, this is definitely the right one; it _has_ to be.

“You’d do anything, anything at all to stop being bored,” the man continues.

Sherlock is only half listening. Maybe he should take the damn pill just to get the cabbie to shut up. And it would prove his point, wouldn’t it?

“You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?”

Sherlock brings the pill closer to his mouth, watching the man mirror his movement with the other one. The second before the pill touches Sherlock’s lips, a gunshot fills the air. The bullet hits the cabbie right in the chest, too close to his heart to be curable. He falls back onto the floor, a look of surprise on his face. Sherlock drops the pill immediately and hurries over to the window, seeking the shooter that might have saved his life. The window of the opposite room is wide open, but there’s no one to be seen.

Outside, approximately eleven minutes later, Sherlock is sitting in the back of an ambulance and talking to Lestrade. Someone, probably one of the paramedics, has thrown a red blanket across his shoulders – a ridiculous attempt at comfort. 

“So, no sign of the shooter?” he asks the DI.

“Cleared off before we got here. Unfortunately, we’ve got nothing to go on.”

Sherlock sighs audibly. Of course Lestrade would think that. 

“Oh I wouldn’t say that.” He starts shooting out deductions about the man who killed the murderer a couple of minutes ago. 

“... You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel –“ he trails off when something, or rather someone, catches his attention. He can feel his presence a fraction before he sees him. Dr. John Watson is standing behind the police tape, looking innocently at him, just like he did four days ago. Sherlock’s mood brightens instantly, and he briefly wonders whether John feels the same. For a moment their eyes meet, then John looks away.

_Oh._

“Actually, do you know what? Ignore me,” he says to Lestrade.

“Sorry?” 

“Ignore all of that. It’s just the, er, the shock talking.” He slowly gets up and starts walking over towards the tape. His feet move automatically, as if he were magically drawn to the man on the other side.

“I’ve still got questions for you,” Lestrade shouts after him.

“Oh, what now? I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket. And I just caught you a serial killer... more or less.”

The DI doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, we’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

Sherlock, already on his way, throws the blanket into one of the police cars. Once he’s reached John, however, he doesn’t know what to say. His heart is beating a little faster, but he blames it on the shock.

“Hey, Sherlock. Sergeant Donavan’s just been explaining everything to me. Two pills, how dreadful.” 

“What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t want to see me again,” Sherlock blurts out.

“I don’t,” John says. The words hurt Sherlock more than he expected.

“Look, Sherlock, I hope you understand that this, er, thing between us isn’t easy for me. I’m a married man and I haven’t even told my wife what happened the other day. I think it’s best if we don’t see each other again and forget about the whole thing. But an hour ago I was on my way back from work when I suddenly felt –“. 

John stops and clears his throat. “– God, this is gonna sound ridiculous.”

“No, please continue.”

“I felt that you were in danger. I can’t really explain how, but I just knew where you were and that someone was threatening you.”

Sherlock shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He hasn’t heard of any similar occurrences, but then again he hasn’t really had a reason to research the whole soulmate topic. Until now.

“I came over to the college as soon as possible, but somehow I ended up on the wrong side of the building,” John continues.

“I figured. Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course I’m alright.”

“Well, you have just killed a man,” Sherlock explains. It’s not the only reason why he asks, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Yes, I have, haven’t I?” John pauses, the words apparently sinking in. “I... I did it to save you. And he wasn’t a very nice man.”

“No, no he wasn’t.” 

Sherlock looks away, unsure how to react. He’s moved by John’s words, but he knows he shouldn’t be. It’s better for him not to develop any sort of feelings for John – be it sympathy or others. John, albeit being his person, is married. And even if he weren’t, sentiment is a dangerous disadvantage found on the losing side. 

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie,” John replies.

Sherlock has to chuckle. “That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should’ve seen the route he took us to get here!”

John starts to giggle, and Sherlock wishes he could bottle up the sound and get drunk on it.

“Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it,” John says but the smile is still wide across his face.

“You’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame me.”

“Keep your voice down.” He continues in a more serious tone. “You were gonna take that damned pill, weren`t you?” 

“Course I wasn’t. Biding my time. I knew the police would turn up.”

“No you didn’t. It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.” 

Apparently his person can read him like an open book. Sherlock isn’t sure if he likes it.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.” 

Again, Sherlock can’t keep himself from smiling. They’ve started walking away from the crime scene, still facing each other. There’s nothing Sherlock would like to do more than to ask John to join him for dinner, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stops at the corner of the street where his and John’s paths part ways.

“So, I guess that’s it, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Next time I’m in danger, you don’t have to rescue me. It’s part of the occupational hazard.”

John smirks while raising an eyebrow. “Fine. But if you do get killed, don’t come back to haunt me.”

“Are you sure? I imagine I’d be great ghost company. I could give you lectures about the three hundred-and-forty-three different types of tobacco ash whenever you’re bored at work.”

“I’ll think about the offer,” John replies. “Goodbye, Sherlock”, he adds.

“Goodbye John.”

This time it’s Sherlock who offers his hand. John hesitates half a second before taking it, unlike Sherlock did at Bart’s. He can once again feel the tingling in his fingers; the sensation of finally having found the place where his hands belong. Once he lets go, the feeling remains like an echo. He tries to study John’s features as best as he can – the smile on his lips, the blue eyes, the grey stubble and the creases on his forehead – and stores the image in his mind palace, before he turns around and leaves.

___

John opens the door as quietly as possible, trying not to wake Mary. He can hear her breathe evenly in the darkness of their bedroom. The incident with Sherlock made him return home unusually late, and his wife was already asleep when he arrived. He slowly changes into his pajamas, but once he lifts the blanket in order to get under the covers on his side of the bed, he can feel Mary shifting next to him.

“John?” 

“Yes, love?”

“Wher’ve you been?” she whispers, her voice thick with sleep.

“I, er, had to help someone.”

“What? Were you with a patient?”

She pushes herself up onto her elbow and turns on the yellow lamp on her night stand. Her hair is sticking out messily and her eyes are still small from sleeping, but she smiles at John and leans forward to give him a quick kiss nonetheless. It’s then that John realises he needs to tell her. She’d find out sooner or later, anyway.

“Mary, look, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, I mean no. It’s just...” He pinches the back of his nose. “You know that I love you, right?”

She looks back at him worriedly. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“You remember that four days ago I met this man called Sherlock Holmes, right? The one from Bart’s who took me along to a crime scene?”

“Yes, of course. Isn’t he the one you went out to dinner with the other night?”

“Yeah, exactly. You see, that night two days ago I found out that we’re... that he’s my – person.” Saying it out loud for the first time makes it so much more real. There’s no way to take it back now; to let it rest in the peace of oblivion.

John’s stomach sinks to the floor once he dares to look at Mary. Her expression is one of horror, shock, hurt, sadness and disappointment all at once, but she tries to conceal it immediately.

“I’m so, so sorry, Mary. Finding out was an accident. I couldn’t get myself to tell you sooner because I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I understand,” his wife replies. “But I guess I need some time to process it.”

“Of course, love.” 

They stare at their shadows on the cover for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. Mary rubs her hands through her face, and John can’t shake the feeling that he didn’t say everything he wanted to, needed to.

“Mary? Please believe me when I say I’m not going to see him again. I love you, and I’m not –“

She cuts him off. “John, it’s okay.”

“What?”

“I mean I obviously don’t like it, but it’s not your fault. We both knew this could happen some day. As long as we don’t let it affect our marriage, it’s going to be okay.”

The relief washing through John makes him exhale deeply. “It won’t, I’m sure of it.” 

He leans forward and pulls his wife into a close embrace. The knot in John’s chest finally seems to unravel a bit. Everything will be alright; they will be able to get past this. “You’re amazing,” he whispers in her ear.

When they part, there’s a small smile on Mary’s lips. 

“There’s one thing I’d like to know, though. How did it feel?”

John knows exactly what she’s talking about. He takes her hand and stares at the bed sheets for a moment, not sure if telling his wife about his bond to another person is a good idea. 

“Er, I don’t know... it was strange, to say the least. I felt a tingling in my fingers once he reached for my hand, but that’s pretty much it. To be honest, I don’t really know why everyone’s making such a fuzz over it.” He shrugs his shoulders. Lying to Mary wasn’t his intention, but it’s probably better to spare her from the truth.

“Oh, okay.” She seems surprised, but mainly relieved. “And you helped him earlier? How come?”

John opens his mouth; he completely forgot about mentioning his help to Sherlock before. He settles on telling her the truth.

“Well, there seems to be some sort of connection between us. I knew he was in danger – it turned out he was about to take a damn pill that could’ve killed him – so I went to where he was and… saved his life. ” 

He looks up at Mary, her expression unfathomable. 

“We already agreed that it was a one-time thing, though,” he adds quickly.

“Too bad that we’re not... that sounds like a useful thing,” she finally replies.

“I know, but I won’t see him again. I don’t even want to.”

They lie down next to each other; Mary’s back curled against John’s torso. He nuzzles into her hair, taking deep breaths and inhaling her scent to calm himself. Frankly, he doesn’t recall the last time they lay together like this. 

John silently tells himself that everything will be fine; surely he’ll stop thinking about Sherlock when he stops seeing him and eventually move past this bloody mess. There’s no reason why anything in his life should change. As he slowly drifts off to sleep, John wonders why he doesn’t fully believe himself.

His last thought before falling asleep is Sherlock, and he will be his first thought upon waking. 

___

_March 2010_

He turns his coat collar up and pushes his hands into the pockets of the Belstaff, rolling his eyes even though there’s no one around to see it. 

This cannot be true; the gardener cannot have killed Mr. Scott. It shouldn’t be possible, at least not according to his deductions. Lestrade is mad at him, but that doesn’t bother Sherlock. Sergeant Donovan made fun of him for having lost his ‘creepy superpower’, but that doesn’t bother him either. What does bother him is the fear residing inside him that she might be right. It wasn’t the first time this week that he led the whole of Scotland Yard on a wrong track.

Things have changed in the last couple of weeks – in the last six weeks, to be precise. Sherlock has been distracted by his own thoughts, almost unable to focus at crime scenes. He keeps hearing muffled words like _amazing_ and _fantastic_ during his deductions, but whenever he turns around only the same boring faces stare at him with doubt in their eyes. It seems like the one thing that used to be the sole focus of his attention, the only purpose in his life, isn’t enough anymore. And it’s driving him insane.

Up until a couple of weeks ago, Sherlock despised the idea of having a soulmate. It just isn’t logical; it doesn’t make sense from a scientific point of view. How can two people be destined to be together, be pulled towards each other like magnets? It’s ludicrous. Yet here Sherlock is, unable to forget the person his soul is bonded to, as if he were just an ordinary man with ordinary human emotions. From early on in his life, Sherlock – much like his brother Mycroft – always thought he was above outbursts of human emotions. He didn’t need love or friendship, didn’t need companionship or significant others. But for some reason, on the 30th of January (or maybe even the day before) he realised that he _could potentially_ need those things.

At first, he thought he could get past it, that after a couple of days he’d have already forgotten the blue-eyed army doctor. He spent much of the beginning of February involving himself in any crime-related opportunity that arose, annoying Lestrade even more than usual. The few remaining nights were filled with a number of experiments, some of which might have included analysing a sample of every perfume currently available on the market. But even though he used to be able to rely on The Work distracting him from anything and everything, John Watson crept in on his mind more often than not. He tried locking the door to the newly-built room in his mind palace, even tried to delete the man in question completely, but nothing worked. Now he remains cursed with the knowledge that his soulmate is out in London enjoying his life whilst Sherlock is slowly turning into a shadow of himself.

Sherlock increases his pace, stamping his foot on the ground with each step. He wants to get home and sulk on the couch as quickly as possible.

Once the black door of 221B comes in sight, he notices a woman waiting in front of it. Curly blond hairs are framing her face from underneath a red hat, and her blue eyes scan her environment continuously. Sherlock freezes in his movements when he sees a golden wedding band on her left hand. Could it be her? Balance of probability suggests that 50,6% of women her age are married, 72% of which wear a golden ring. The chances are still in Sherlock’s favour. When the woman sees him, she passes the remaining distance between them and stretches out her hand. The smile on her face doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Excuse me, do we know each other?” _Please be a client, please be a client._

“Not exactly,” she pauses. “I’m Mary, Mary Watson.”

Sherlock’s heart flutters involuntarily. What is she doing here?

“I should explain why I’m here. Could we maybe take this inside?” she asks.

Sherlock awakes from his rigidity. “Yes, yes, absolutely. Please follow me.”  
He leads her into the flat, telling her to make herself comfortable while preparing tea. From the corner of his eyes he can see her examining the living room. Sherlock wonders what she might be thinking. He already deduced that John told her about him, yet he can’t figure out how she’s feeling. Is she jealous of him? Does she think John deserves better, someone who might not be as messy as Sherlock? Does it bother her that he’s a man?

Once the tea is prepared, they sit down on the two armchairs facing each other. Sherlock realises that John hasn’t even seen the flat, yet. And he never will, he reminds himself. 

Mary takes a sip from her cup before continuing.

“I know that this situation is... unusual. I’m here because of John.”

“I assure you I haven’t been in contact with him.”

“Yes, I’m aware, that’s why I’m here. I want you to contact him.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again. Out of all the things he would’ve expected her to say, this definitely wasn’t one of them.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand?”

“It sounds crazy, I know.” She settles her mug on the small table next to her and rests her palms on her lap. “The problem is... John hasn’t really been himself, lately. He has issues concentrating at work and he’s constantly in a bad mood. He’d never mention anything to me, but I know him. He’s miserable. And I think it’s because of his current situation with you.”

Sherlock has to blink several times, trying to let the words sink in. The last six weeks were a torture for him, but all this time he thought John had already forgotten him. The only comforting thought was that he was doing what John wanted, what was best for him. Knowing that he was unhappy as well makes it all so much worse. 

“What can I do to change that, Mrs. Watson?”

“It’s Mary, please. You see, we both know that as his person, you’re meant to... spend time together. I know that being apart can cause distress and even sickness, and I don’t want to risk that happening to my husband. Therefore I think it’d be best if you two would see each other again. Maybe you’ll become friends – I’ve once heard of a similar case in Boston.”

Her expression is honest when she adds: “I only want what’s best for John.”

So they do have something in common, at least. Sherlock can tell that she means what she says. It must cost her a lot to seek out her husband’s soulmate, to ask him to start a friendship with him. 

It would be much easier to hate Mary, Sherlock thinks. He could blame her for his misery and everything would be fine. But how can he hate someone who puts John’s happiness above her own? How can he hate someone who loves John that much?

“I guess it could work.” 

In the end, he doesn’t even have to think twice about the proposal. He’ll be able to spend time with John, get to know him better, maybe even get him to help on cases again. It’s more than he ever thought he’d have.

“Wonderful.” Mary tells him the name and address of John’s clinic – as if Sherlock doesn’t know already. “He usually finishes work at 5 pm on Fridays. Maybe you could pick him up.”

They say their goodbyes in the hallway, yet halfway down the stairs Mary turns around again.

“Oh, there’s one more thing. Do you think we could keep this conversation to ourselves?”

“Yes, absolutely. And Mary?” he calls after her. “Thank you.”

She laughs and for a second Sherlock can see the tiredness behind her eyes. “Believe me, I’m not doing this for you.”

Once she has left, Sherlock slams the living room door shut. Yes, it would definitely be easier to hate her.

___

“Mrs. Blanchard I can assure you that your son does not have yellow fever,” John sighs. He knows he comes across as rude, but he can’t help it. Somehow his patients have gotten a lot more annoying lately.

When the worried woman in front of him opens her mouth to protest, John lifts a hand to interrupt. “I’m sure because he’s never been to Africa or South America, and neither has anyone in his immediate environment. He hasn’t left England in the last decade; he doesn’t show any indication of jaundice. And, most importantly, his blood work came back this morning – all clear. Justin has got a regular flu. I recommend a symptomatic medication and he should be fine by next week.”

John tries to give her his best assuring doctor look. Finally, she seems convinced.

“Well, fine then. Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

“You’re welcome. Please send him my regards and best wishes. Ice cream can help reduce the fever.”

Once the concerned mother has left, John stretches his legs. Maybe he should start jogging again; it might help clear his head. He absent-mindedly stares at the clock, failing to register the time. A careful knock on the door helps him out of his day dream.

“Dr. Watson, Mrs. Blanchard was the last patient for today. Do you want to stay and do the paper work?” 

It’s Nancy, one of the nurses. Leaning against the door frame slightly, she suppresses a yawn. She works part-time like her husband, allowing them to take care of their two kids in turn. John knows she’d rather be home sooner than later; and frankly he feels the same.

“Thanks, Nancy. I guess we’ll call it an early weekend and finish the rest on Monday morning. You’re free to go.”

There’s a quick smile on her lips before she closes the door. John picks up his phone from the desk to text Mary that he’ll be home soon. Due to her part-time employment, she had the day off. Maybe they can watch and old Western over dinner, if John manages to concentrate this time. He already feels tired at the prospect of his couch waiting for him.

_Done for the day, I’ll be home at 6._

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, John gathers his things and heads out without waiting for a reply. The warm evening air already hints at the arrival of spring, causing John to leave his jacket unzipped and his scarf open. Outside, his thoughts start to wander again. Without focusing on the street, he practically runs into the tall man in his dark coat.

“ _Outch!_ Excuse m – Sherlock?! What are you doing here?”

The surprise and joy of seeing him are quickly replaced by concern. Scanning Sherlock from head to toe, John notices that the detective looks miserable, much like a mirror of John. He’s got dark under-eye circles and seems even thinner than the last time. John wonders whether he eats sufficiently; Sherlock already told him about his unhealthy relationship with food and ‘transport’ when they were at that restaurant in January. 

“Oh, hey John,” Sherlock replies, seeming genuinely surprised. “I’m on my way to a crime scene. What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” John says gesturing towards the building behind them. It really shouldn’t bother him that Sherlock doesn’t know where he works, but for some reason it does.

“You do? What a marvelous coincidence! I could use your help on this case. Lestrade found an abandoned car with the owner’s blood smeared all over the front seats. No sign of the body, though. Will you come along?”

_I’d love to._ “I don’t know, Sherlock. This might not be a good idea.”

“Okay. Yes. You’re right. I’ll see you around, then.”

Sherlock is already halfway around the corner when John catches up. “Wait! I’ll just have to make a quick call... someone’s expecting me.”

Sherlock nods understandingly and waits for John to call Mary. After their nightly conversation in February, they didn’t talk about the incident further. John didn’t mention Sherlock, and Mary didn’t ask any more questions, either. The last six weeks might have been hard for John, but he swore to himself that he wouldn’t burden Mary with it. He promised her that he wasn’t going to spend more time with Sherlock; that he didn’t want to. Now, not even two months later, he’s already breaking that promise. 

Waves of guilt are stirring up inside him, but then his wife answers the phone and it’s too late to draw back. John stammers incohesive words of proposition that Mary understands surprisingly well. She even tells him to have fun with the corpses.

“Thanks. I’ll be home soon. Love you,” John says before hanging up. Returning his attention to Sherlock, he notices a peculiar expression on his face.

“So, where are we heading?” 

“To the crime scene, obviously. Let’s hurry, I’m late already.”

They arrive just in time. John greets the officers he knows from last time, while Sherlock purposefully ignores them. DI Lestrade only nods towards John without so much as a second glance, making John wonder whether he and Sherlock had a little chat about his presence at crime scenes. 

The forensics team is already working on the car Sherlock mentioned. With Sherlock by his side, they walk over to the crime scene, and John realises again how natural it feels to be in the tall man’s company. Sherlock demands for a blood sample to be sent to the lab before starting to analyse every inch of the car. John stays next to him with crossed arms, eager to watch the forthcoming deductions. He’s had the pleasure of witnessing Sherlock deduce a crime scene once before, back in January. His ability to read people and situations like open books fascinated John from the very first minute. The way his long body moves over the items presented to him reminds John of a curious gazelle. Sherlock must be able to see things that nobody else does; his mind working like an ever-going engine. Watching Sherlock deduce, John wonders not for the first time what it must be like to see the world through his eyes.

After the inspection, Sherlock walks over to the victim’s wife, transforming into a completely different person – a tearful, understanding man who morns his friend’s early decease. Once he has gotten the answer he was looking for, he changes back to himself just as quickly. John has no idea what that answer may be.

“Why did you lie to her?” he asks Sherlock while he’s (again) ducking under the police tape Sherlock holds up for him.

Sherlock, wiping a tear from his eye (can he actually cry on command?!) replies, “People don’t like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice? I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in – bit premature, they’ve only just found the car.”

“You think she murdered her husband?”

“Oh no. They were non-persons, but even so – that’s not a mistake a murderer would make.”

“I see.... No I don’t. What am I seeing?”

They are passing the sergeant John distantly remembers. She gives them a side glance, staring angrily after Sherlock. Apparently she’s still mad at his accusations.

“What’s the plan now?” John asks.

Sherlock hands him a business card that says _Janus Cars_. 

“Unfortunately, they’re closed already but we – I’ll go there tomorrow and check them out. Found it in the glove compartment.”

“Okay,” John replies before an awkward silence stretches between them. Should he leave now? Technically, they’re done with the crime scene for today – even though John isn’t sure that his “help” was required – but they haven’t been out for a long time, yet. He could still accompany Sherlock home, maybe check out his flat to ease his curiosity. He isn’t sure whether Sherlock wants him to, though.

“My landlady Mrs. Hudson would love to meet you. She’s been annoying me with questions and I would very much like her to stop. That is, if you don’t mind.” 

“Yeah, sure. I’d love to get to know her.”

John has already been to Sherlock’s flat once before, in that life-changing night in January, but he hasn’t made it further than what he now realises to be the landlady’s hallway. Mrs. Hudson, a very friendly lady who reminds John strongly of his grandmother, was pleased to get to know the man “Sherlock’s been talking about non-stop”. Even though John doubts the truth of this statement, he likes Mrs. Hudson already. The fact that he saw Sherlock slightly blushing only encourages the sympathy he feels for the lady who could just as well be Sherlock’s mother. After a cup of tea in her cozy kitchen, they finally enter Sherlock’s flat.

It’s like entering a different world; there are stacks of magazines on the coffee table, Petri dishes in the sink, notebooks all over the floor and a skull on the mantelpiece. The wallpaper has an old-fashioned black and white print on one side and a reddish-brown print on the other. When Sherlock offers him tea and opens the fridge in order to get milk John catches sight of a box of – according to his anatomical knowledge – human thumbs lying right next to a can of soup. 

The place should feel strange, messy and probably also a bit disgusting to John, but it doesn’t. It simply feels like home. 

Sitting down on a comfy red armchair in the living room, John feels ashamed of himself and his thoughts. Is it his fault he feels that way about this flat? He takes the tea from Sherlock, who has taken a seat on the black leather chair opposite of him.

“So, what shall we do now?” he asks, failing to ignore Sherlock blowing on his tea.

“We could go over the case again. Or you could help me solve a cold case from 1895. I’ve been working on it for weeks but there’s a small detail I seem to be missing.”

John laughs, causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow at him. “Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. It’s just not something people normally suggest.”

“Then what do people normally suggest?”

“Mmmh, let’s see. They have dinner, go out for a pint, maybe go to the movies. Something like that,” John replies with a smirk on his face. He leans back further in the chair and takes a sip of his earl grey.

“Sounds boring.”

“Not if you do it with the right person.” John immediately regrets his choice of words. What is he thinking, mentioning the word _person_ in his person’s presence? Sherlock doesn’t seem to care, though, as he replies right away.

“Fine. Are you hungry?”

“Well, yes, actually. Do you have something in?” Remembering the thumbs in the fridge, John quickly adds: “Or should we get take-out?”

“Take-out seems reasonable. There’s a Chinese restaurant around the corner whose owner still owes me a favour.”

“Did you help him off a murder charge?”

“Not precisely. I helped him install an Ikea shelf.”

They start giggling simultaneously. John, unwilling to keep a straight face, pushes aside the lacking memory of when he last laughed as much with Mary.

“Chinese sounds perfect.”

Once they are settled with boxes of delicious duck and rice half an hour later, Sherlock mentions the 19th century case again. He tells John why he hasn’t been able to solve it yet, the reluctance of admitting his failure clearly audible in his tone. John promises to look into the medical records of malaria cases in late 19th century Brighton, to which Sherlock replies with a content smile. They also go through the Monkford case again. John takes notes on one of the empty notebooks he picked up from the floor, almost forgetting his boxes of food completely. He slips the notebook into his pocket afterwards and quickly finishes his dinner. 

When his phone buzzes, it’s already close to midnight. 

_Will you come home today? ;)_

“Bloody hell! Sherlock, I’m sorry but I completely forgot the time. I should be heading home now.” 

“Yes, of course. Please give my apologies to Mary for keeping you occupied that long.” There’s an unknown expression on Sherlock’s face, one John doesn’t know to interpret yet, but it’s gone before he has the chance to.

“It’s fine, really. It was my fault.”

Reluctantly, John gets up from the kitchen table. Ignoring the fact that he doesn’t want to leave, he picks up his coat from the mantelpiece before turning around once more. “I would love to know what you find out at _Janus Cars_ , though. Would you mind if I came along tomorrow?”

“Course I don’t mind. We’ll meet there ten o’clock?” 

John could have sworn to see Sherlock’s face brighten up, but he might be mistaken. It’s not like he was a huge help on today’s case, for that matter, but Sherlock seems to be looking forward to his company nonetheless.

They make their way downstairs, Sherlock accompanying him to the front door. 

“So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” John says.

“Do you like to point out the obvious?” 

“No, I don’t. Otherwise I’d say that you’re being a prat.”

“Lucky me, then. I hope you enjoy spending your Saturday with a prat.”

“There’s nothing I’d rather do.”

John opens the door and heads out into the dark night, unable to see the smile briefly appearing on Sherlock’s face. 

___

_May 2010_

Sherlock has been following the mysterious man for the past twenty minutes. He has taken a zigzag route to what seems to be an abandoned warehouse, looking over his shoulder every now and then. Luckily, Sherlock manages to increase the distance between them without losing sight. If everything goes according to plan, the man he’s been following will turn out to be Sebastian Miller, the psychopathic serial killer he and John have been trying to find for the last four weeks. Given the suspicious outward appearance, combined with his earlobes and the way his shoes are tied, Sherlock is 99% certain. 

When Sherlock finally put together the pieces of the case, he didn’t call John as he normally would, but instead decided to shadow Miller on his own. It’s not like John wouldn’t have been helpful, but Sherlock didn’t want him to get involved in what could be a very dangerous, possibly life-threatening situation. They have dealt with psychopaths before, with serial killers who turned Sherlock’s stomach thinking about them, but Miller seems to be the most dangerous one yet, mainly because of his unpredictability.

The man takes a left turn and opens a side door leading into the warehouse. He looks left and right before entering the building, not closing the door completely. Sherlock follows him without a second thought. If his calculations are correct, he should find Miller torturing yet another female victim inside the building. 

Inside, pitch black darkness embraces Sherlock. He has to blink several times to adjust his vision before slowly moving forward. He tries to deduce everything he can – no lights, no screams or cry indicating a potential victim, no sign of any human being in his immediate environment. He stays still, waiting for what he knows is going to come. 

Miller takes him by surprise anyway, putting a well-fired gunshot through Sherlock’s right leg from behind that sends him to his knees. He grabs Sherlock by the head before stepping in front of him, painfully pulling on Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock tries to fight, to stand back up, but then Miller lunges forward and crashes his knee into Sherlock’s chest, which causes all air to escape his lungs. Sherlock distantly hears himself making embarrassing sounds of pain before he’s finally able to breathe again. H’s still on the floor, only managing to hold himself up on one hand. He lets out a groan and tries to free himself from Miller’s grip, but his legs still aren’t of any use. There’s a puddle of blood thickening underneath his limbs. 

Miller pulls out a remote and presses a button, causing several lights to turn on. Sherlock closes his eyes against the white lights, but quickly reopens them to scan his attacker. He watches Sherlock from above, a frantic grin on his face. How preposterous. Instead of saying anything, he takes Sherlock’s hands and cuffs them together, then does the same with his feet. Sherlock loses balance and jolts forward, causing him to be on all fours in front of the maniac grin.

“So I see you’ve expected me?” Sherlock asks. His voice echoes from the walls.

“That’s right, Mr. Holmes. And I hope I’ve given you a proper welcome.”

“I guess there’s room for improvement,” Sherlock replies, feeling wet lines of red running down either sides of his bended leg. His hands and feet are tied together, making it unable for him to move expect for maybe fall to the side, which obviously isn’t an option.

“I know, but then again I didn’t really have much time to prepare. You see, I always know when I’m being followed. So there really was no use in your charade.” 

“It was worth a try. Now tell me, is this where you killed five women in the last four weeks, Mr. Miller?”

“Well, yes of course. I like the dramatic touch of the location, don’t you agree?” He didn’t object to the name, so at least Sherlock knows who he’s dealing with.

“Yes, very dramatic. And how did you do it?” Sherlock tries to bide his time while simultaneously thinking about an escape plan. For some reason his brilliant mind decided to leave him at this very moment.

“No, no, no, Mr. Holmes, you’re not the one allowed to ask questions here. I’d say you should’ve brought your pet. What’s his name again? Dr. Watson, if I remember correctly from the papers. You and your person got yourselves a reputation.”

Sherlock shifts at the mention of John. Miller seems to know a great deal more than the public, seeing as John and Sherlock kept the nature of their relation private. 

“And why is that?” he manages to get out. 

“Because he could’ve helped you, or, in this case, die with you. But I know you, Mr. Holmes. You and I are quite alike. We’re both lonely wolves, wandering through the night. We don’t need dogs following us around, slobbering us with their words of praise. We’re better off alone.”

The words cut deeper than the wound in Sherlock’s leg. Miller has a point. Up until a couple of months ago, Sherlock always felt superior to everyone and everything. He didn’t need a companion for his work nor for his life. Since he met John, much of his old views have changed. In this case, however, he’s glad he didn’t bring John.

“I don’t need your advice on human interaction. And you and me are not alike,” Sherlock lets the last plosive pop for emphasis.

“I’d humbly disagree, but I think we don’t have much time for chatting now. I’d like to introduce you to something, anyway.” He violently pulls Sherlock up to his feet, which sends a jolting pain through his leg. 

Up to his full length, Sherlock can see the giant metal tank in the middle of the room, connected to a water pipe. A couple of stairs are leading up to the roof of the tank, and the sides consist of glass, giving view of the rushing water inside.

“And what’s that?” Sherlock asks through gritted teeth. He barely manages to stand.

“Your death,” Miller replies and pushes Sherlock towards the tank.

So much for the dramatic touch, Sherlock thinks. He can’t help rolling his eyes. 

Once they’ve reached the metal giant, Miller forcefully pushes Sherlock up the tiny stairs. With his feet still tied together, Sherlock practically has to jump up each step, which hurts like hell. The tight grip on Sherlock’s arm doesn’t help, either. Closer now, Sherlock can hear the rushing sound of water filling up inside. Once they are on top of the tank, Miller opens the heavy screw to reveal a flood of water. The entrance is small enough for a single person and Sherlock desperately tries to think of a way to push Miller inside, who still has him in his grip. 

“Happy drowning! I will be watching from the port whole outside,” Miller says, pointing to the long stripe of glass right underneath them.

Sherlock doesn’t even have a chance to reply when Miller pushes him inside. 

The cold water hits him like stone, numbing his body within seconds. Luckily it’s not salt water, but his wound hurts nonetheless. Sherlock tries to keep his head above water with his hands and feet still tied together, which already costs him more energy than he has left. He swallows a large gulp of water whilst cursing before he manages to keep up. 

If Mycroft knew about Sherlock’s inability to defend himself, he’d never hear the end of it. Maybe drowning is the better option. 

After Miller’s descend down the stairs he watches Sherlock from the glass front, his eyes dark and his expression filled with madness and lust. The water keeps rising and rising and Miller’s grin keeps increasing, until Sherlock cannot hold his head up anymore. He takes one last deep breath, still trying to free his hands from the handcuffs. 

The only thought comforting him is that he didn’t bring John. No matter what that psychopath tried telling him, there’s no way in the world Sherlock would want John to be drowning in this tank with him. Is that ugly grin really the last thing on earth Sherlock shall see? With the water blurring his vision it’s harder to see Miller, but then Sherlock notices a figure approaching from behind. Miller, still enjoying the show, doesn’t seem to notice. For a second Sherlock is sure to see the person his mind is clinging onto, but he hopes it’s just his hallucination. 

He blinks one last time before losing consciousness.

___

John slowly takes the gun out of his back pocket and shoots the man right into his thigh. He’s an easy enough target, standing still in the middle of the room with his back turned to John, completely unaware of his presence. With a heart-rending cry he drops to the floor. John quickly runs over to him.

“You bastard!” the man shouts while waves of blood flood out of his upper leg.

“You are damn lucky I didn’t shoot you in the head!” 

He continues his cursing, but John has already turned around to the giant tank. His heart skips a beat.

_Sherlock._

All logic and reasonable thoughts of calling the police first leave John’s mind. He can see Sherlock’s tall body floating inside, his eyes closed. John practically jumps up the stairs and unscrews the lid. The water is already reaching the top of the tank, so all John has to do is jump in head first.

Inside, it’s colder than he expected, and it takes him a moment to adjust his vision. He can barely see Sherlock anymore, so he swims downward blindly. Once he reaches two white hands, he realises how pale Sherlock already is. He takes him by the arm and pushes them both upwards with all the force he can manage, desperately holding onto Sherlock. The water pushed aside from Sherlock’s body is turning an alarming shade of red. The way back up feels like an eternity, but finally he can see a shimmer of light from above. He pushes Sherlock through the little whole, hoping that he regains his consciousness sooner than later. From within the water, without any ground to support him, John can’t push Sherlock out of the way for him to exit, so all he can do is wait for Sherlock to do it on his own. Maybe he should have thought about this before jumping, but the prospect of dying wouldn’t have changed his actions either way.

Only when John feels like he’s about to run out of air, he can see Sherlock’s feet moving outside of the tank. The tied hands come back in immediately and pull John out. John takes a deep, life-saving breath of air and spits out some water before turning towards Sherlock, who’s lying on the cold metal ground next to him.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John quickly robs over to his friend and starts examining him.

“I’m... fine.” But John hears the effort it takes him to breathe evenly. He can sense that Sherlock is nowhere near to being fine.

“No, you’re not fine. What were you thinking?!”

John scans his friend’s body frantically, taking off his own wet shirt to put pressure on Sherlock’s leg. The bleeding stops after a couple of seconds – luckily the bullet isn’t inside the flesh anymore. Apart from the leg wound, Sherlock’s got red wrists and feet where the cuffs are still rubbing against his white skin – nothing a bit of healing salve can’t fix. John relaxes a bit. He can’t help anger rushing past the relief of seeing Sherlock alive.

“Me? What were you... thinking? I was doing fine!” Sherlock replies angrily. 

“I saved your life, you sod! Is this the way of thanking me?” 

He can’t believe this arrogant git, risking his life again and again without saying a word. John feels like throwing up when he thinks about what could have happened to Sherlock.

Sherlock coughs a couple of times in response.

John helps Sherlock into a seating position in order to pad him on his back. They’re very close on the small tank and John can see water drops falling from Sherlock’s curls. For a moment he’s mesmerised by it and blends out his surroundings completely. He doesn’t hear the rushing of the water anymore, the cries of the killer or Sherlock’s heavy breathing. He doesn’t care that he’s mad at Sherlock, or that he’s lying bare-chested in a freezing warehouse. All he can do is fight the urge to lean forward and touch those dark, wet curls. 

“I had it all... under control,” Sherlock replies, ripping him out of his trance. 

“You call this ‘under control’? You could’ve died, Sherlock!”

“I told you in January that you didn’t need to save me anymore. Why did you even do that? You could’ve... died jumping into the tank,” Sherlock’s voice is softer now, filled with concern for John’s life – after almost drowning himself.

“Not saving you isn’t debatable. I would do it again in a heartbeat, and nothing you say will change that, Sherlock. That’s what friends do,” John replies. 

Sherlock remains silent but his expression shifts.

“What?”

Sherlock clears his throat, obviously embarrassed. “It’s just... no one’s ever been willing to do this for me before.”

The sadness in his voice is almost killing John. But how could he know? 

“Well get used to it,” is all John can say. He smiles up at Sherlock, but any further words are interrupted by the shout of the serial killer.

“Can somebody shoot me please? This is unbearable!”

___

_July 2010_

Walking up to the giant Victorian building, Sherlock feels confident. His leg is much better now, almost healed from the welcome-gift Miller gave him back in May. The warm July sun has made his Belstaff unnecessary a couple of weeks ago, but Sherlock wouldn’t want to miss the feeling of the fluttering fabric around his torso. John is right next to him, grinning like an idiot after the fight they’ve just had. Of course he didn’t understand the only fool-proof way of entering the dominatrix’ flat was with the right disguise. When Sherlock asked him to punch him in the face, he seemed pretty reluctant at first, but an initiation from Sherlock’s side made him eager to return the favour.

Thankfully, the disguises work, and they find themselves inside the house after a couple of minutes of explaining. While John heads towards the kitchen to grab a first aid kit, i.e. check out potential fire alarms, Sherlock waits for the suspect in the luxurious living room. 

Everything goes according to plan – Sherlock is confident he’ll have the photos within half an hour – when a middle-aged, good-looking woman with dark hair and red lips enters, stark naked.

“Oh, it’s hard to remember an alias when you’ve had a fright, isn’t it?” 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to reply. For the first time in his life, he finds himself unable to deduce even the smallest detail about the person in front of him. The woman walks into the room, her high heels clicking on the floor, and stops in front of Sherlock. With a quick motion of her hand she pulls Sherlock’s white collar from his shirt.

“There now, we’re _both_ defrocked. Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Miss Adler, I presume.” Sherlock changes back into his normal voice. There’s no need for the disguise anymore.

“Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?” Miss Adler narrows her eyes down at him before taking the white collar to her mouth and biting down onto its edges. Her red lipstick leaves a print on the fabric. Sherlock stares at her in confusion until he sees John in the corner of his eyes. 

“Right, this should do it,” John says before stopping abruptly. Sherlock can see his eyes widening and one of his brows furrowing upwards as John stares from him to Miss Adler and back.

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

Miss Adler offers John to take a seat before she sits down in an armchair and crosses her legs, folding her arms to obscure the view of her chest. 

“Oh, if you’d like some tea I can call the maid,” she tells Sherlock.

“I had some at the Palace.”

“I know.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock replies and resumes his attempt at deducing her. Without the clothes and with the additional make-up, it’s harder than he ever thought it could be.

“I had a tea, too, at the Palace. If anyone’s interested,” John says into the silence. If Sherlock didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn to hear a fraction of jealousy in John’s voice. He dismisses the thought immediately.

“Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?” Miss Adler resumes. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

“You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?”

“No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.”

Sherlock smirks at the arrogance of this dominatrix. She might have a point, though.

“And somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth, too.” 

Sherlock doesn’t miss the quick glance Miss Adler gives John, which causes a strange feeling spreading through his chest.

John forces a laugh, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Sherlock can practically hear his mind swirling. “Could you put something on, please? Er, anything at all. A napkin.”

“Why? Are you feeling exposed?” 

“I don’t think John knows where to look,” Sherlock replies for him, handing Miss Adler his coat.

“No I think he knows exactly where. I’m not so sure about you.” 

It’s a topic Sherlock wouldn’t like to dwell on any further, especially not with a stranger, so he tells John to man the door while giving him a significant look. Plan Amadeus is go. In order to distract Miss Adler from the fact that John is currently setting up a fire in her house, Sherlock tells her about one of his recent cases. 

Once the fire alarm finally tells Sherlock the location of the phone, they are interrupted by three armed Americans. One of them is aiming his gun at John, who has returned to the living room, his hands over his head. Sherlock’s stomach sinks to the floor at the sight. 

The leader of the trio, clearly a dim-witted man from the Southern states with a bad temper, demands Sherlock to open the safe. He keeps up a polite charade, but when that doesn’t work, he turns to stronger measures. 

“Mr. Archer, at the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson.”

Panic rises up in Sherlock. Up until now, everything involving The Work has always been fun for him, even the danger. He gladly accepted the fights, the broken noses and the loaded guns; he even enjoyed the threat to his life. It was the legal way of getting high without going through the trouble of having to purchase cocaine first. But that was before John. Or rather, before one of said guns was directed at John. 

“I don’t have the code.” He tries it with logic.

“One.”

“I don’t know the code,” Sherlock emphasises. 

“Two.”

“She didn’t tell me. I don’t know it!” Sherlock is yelling now. If anything happens to John, it will be his fault. In desperation he looks over to Miss Adler, begging her for help with his eyes. She lowers her gaze downwards.

“Three.”

“No, stop!” 

Sherlock, making sure that Mr. Archer stops, slowly turns towards the safe. His mind works frantically with John’s life at stake. He enters the – hopefully correct – code and looks back at the dominatrix, who gives him another vital sign. Before opening the safe, Sherlock shouts ‘Vatican Cameos’ and hopes for John to get the hint. 

It all goes down very quickly. Within seconds, the three men are lying on the ground – two guns pointed at them; one of them dead. Miss Adler, however, can’t keep her mouth shut.

“Thank you. You were very observant.”

“Observant?” John asks.

“I’m flattered,” she continues.

Sherlock can’t believe that this woman, whom he assumed to be of above-average intelligence, really thinks there’s a reason to be flattered. “Don’t be.”

“Flattered?” John asks again.

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He wonders why he doesn’t want John to figure it out. He also wonders since when John became so inquisitive.

___

_August 2010_

_I need your help._

_It’s urgent._

_Come at once, if convenient._

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

John rolls his eyes at his phone, before slipping it back into his pocket. He looks up at Mary, who has just prepared his favourite pasta for lunch, and bites his lips. Usually, he’s able to ignore these sorts of texts from Sherlock quite well, but after the woman’s death two weeks ago John wants to be there for him as much as possible.

“Is it another case?” Mary asks.

“I don’t know… but I think I should go and check whether everything’s okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, John.”

“Really? Do you want to… come along?”

He knows the answer before she shakes her head. “I’m not feeling like leaving the house today.”

John gets up from his chair and nods understandingly. “I’ll try to be home as soon as possible.”

“I know.”

He leaves the house feeling guilty, as usual. Mary wanted them to spend the day together, just the two of them, because they haven’t done that properly in a very long time. He had been looking forward to it, too. But the thing with Sherlock is, you never know what he’s up to. He might be doing a crossword puzzle on the couch and waiting for John to fetch him a pen, or he might be in the middle of a fight with a Chinese undercover ninja. 

If Sherlock isn’t at least fighting for his life, John will make sure he has to.

At 221B, John arrives to find Mrs. Hudson in front of the door, struggling to carry her groceries inside. He helps her and asks whether she knows what’s going on with Sherlock, but she just shrugs her shoulders and says that she never really does.

John jogs up the stairs and opens the living room door, but Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

“John?”

He follows the voice to Sherlock’s bedroom, and finds his friend lying in bed – a quite unusual sight, especially for this time of day.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

“No, John, of course not,” Sherlock replies. His voice sounds hoarse and even deeper than usual, and only then does John notice the pile of tissues on the floor and the redness around Sherlock’s nose and eyes. A navy-blue dressing gown is covering his otherwise bare chest, and he’s staring up at John with watery eyes.

“Are you – sick?”

“Very good, John. Brilliant deduction.”

“Oh come on! You really called me because of a simple cold?!” John can’t stop himself from chuckling. For some reason he wouldn’t have expected Sherlock to be sickly, or whiny. 

“A simple cold? John, you are a doctor – you should know better. My nose is blocked, my throat is sore, I have a headache as well as a fever, and spasm in my lungs.” He loos up at John with a very serious expression.

John’s chuckles quickly turn into a proper laugh. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but this is just too funny.”

“I don’t know what’s supposed to be funny about my misery.”

“It’s just… I thought you were above these things,” John gestures into the air.

“I am! But my body’s betraying me,” Sherlock says before coughing out loud. “Please, John, I’m in agony!”

“I can tell,” John replies with a smirk. “Fine, I’ll take care of you for a while, but then I need to get back home.”

Sherlock nods, then looks up at John expectantly. John takes a hand to Sherlock’s forehead and feels the slightly elevated temperature. He goes into the bathroom and returns with a wet towel he places on Sherlock’s head.

“You should put on something warmer,” he says with a quick glance at Sherlock’s chest.

“But it’s so hot,” Sherlock complains. 

“If you want to get better, you need warmth – especially around your throat. Where do you keep your jumpers?”

This time it’s Sherlock who laughs out loud. “You don’t really expect me to own anything close to a jumper, do you?”

John lets out a puff of air. “Well you’re not gonna lay there in one of your suits.”

He thinks about his options. Going out to buy a jumper for Sherlock seems like a waste – considering Sherlock would only wear it once. Calling Mary to bring one of John’s jumpers doesn’t seem like a good idea, either, because she’d probably think him mad for taking care of Sherlock’s cold. The only option suitable enough is offering his own jumper to Sherlock, but how would that come across? Besides, it probably wouldn’t even fit.

“A shirt and my scarf will make do,” Sherlock interrupts his thought process.

John isn’t convinced, but he can’t think of anything better at the moment. Sherlock’s closet reveals a number of colour-coordinated shirts, and John picks out the purple one Sherlock once wore. He throws it over to the bed, but Sherlock gives him a questioning look.

“Really, John? That doesn’t even remotely match the dressing gown.”

“I don’t bloody care, Sherlock, just put it on!” 

Once Sherlock starts opening the dressing gown, John realises too late that he doesn’t intend on waiting for him to get out of the room first. For a reason John definitely doesn’t want to investigate further, he feels heat rising to his ears and face. He quickly returns his attention to the closet, as if the clothing items inside were the most interesting things he’s ever seen. 

“Can you fetch me my scarf, please?” Sherlock asks. 

John feels it safe to look, and finds Sherlock fully dressed, to his relief. He walks over to the chair and unwinds the blue scarf from its back, before handing it to Sherlock and going into the kitchen. He finds Sherlock’s tea and even a canny soup that’s non-perishable, and prepares both before returning to the bedroom. 

Sherlock is lying on his back, with the scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, but he sits up straight when he sees the tray in John’s hands.

“Eat this, it should make you feel better,” John says, placing the tray onto the small bedside table.

“Thank you, John.”

“That’s okay. Where do you keep your pain killers? If you’ve got ibuprofen it’ll help with the fever.”

“I don’t think I have any,” Sherlock replies.

“Really? Then I’ll get you some, later.” John looks around the room. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m fine.”

John doesn’t know what to do, so he just stands next to the bed awkwardly, watching Sherlock eat his soup. Maybe he should just leave.

“I guess I should be go–“

“Can you stay for a while?” Sherlock interrupts. “Just to keep me company.”

“Yeah, sure.” John isn’t sure why he feels relieved. He retrieves the chair from the corner of the room and sits down next to Sherlock’s bed. He figures he might stay until Sherlock has finished the soup, and then leave when he wants to go back to sleep. He won’t even be gone for more than two hours, at maximum. Surely Mary won’t mind.

He lets his back rest against the chair and listens to Sherlock telling him about the last time he was sick. He ends up staying the rest of the day, and only leaves after watching Sherlock sleep for half an hour.

___

_September 2010_

When John enters Sherlock’s flat with the key Sherlock gave him months ago, he hears two voices mumbling upstairs. One of them is the sweet, honey-thick voice of Irene Adler, who magically returned from the dead a week ago; the other is a deep sonorant male voice John would recognise everywhere. He closes the door as quietly as possible and looks for Mrs. Hudson, but she’s apparently still at her sister’s house. 

Mary is off on a shopping spree with her girlfriends today, so John decided to spend the afternoon with Sherlock. After the evening in March where Sherlock accidentally bumped into him at the clinic, John has been helping Sherlock on most of his cases, even starting a blog about all the cases they solved together. Even though they both thought that the case of Irene Adler was solved two months ago, she appeared in Sherlock’s bed last Wednesday, wearing one of his dressing gowns. The sight bothered John more than he’d ever admit out loud. 

Hearing their quiet voices makes John furious. Can’t Irene just go stay at a hotel, or something? Why does she have to bother Sherlock with her presence? All John wanted was a peaceful afternoon with his friend, but now he’ll have to listen to her riddles and admiration for Sherlock. 

Slowly, he ascends the stairs until the voices become more distinct. He can hear Sherlock asking for him.

“...John? I was just talking to him.”

“He said you do that. He hasn’t even been here today, yet.”

A silence stretches between them. John feels bad for eves-dropping, but he can’t bring himself to enter. He hopes that Sherlock can’t feel his presence, yet.

“Have you ever had anyone?” Irene asks.

“Sorry?”

“And when I say ‘had’, I’m being indelicate,” she purrs. 

_Is she flirting with Sherlock Holmes?!_

John, unable to hear Sherlock’s quiet answer, takes another step forward. His face is almost touching the door. 

There’s a shifting when one of them leaves their chair. “Well, I’ll be delicate then. Let’s have dinner.”

“Why?”

“Might be hungry.”

“I’m not.” 

For some reason, the knot in John’s chest seems to loosen at that response. He peers through the half open living room door and the knot returns immediately. Irene Adler is on the floor in front of Sherlock’s armchair, her back facing John. They appear to be mere centimetres apart. Sherlock is staring at her, apparently not noticing John’s presence. 

Great.

“Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn’t hungry?”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” Irene replies. She leans into him even further. Are they holding hands?! “... if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?”

John decides that he’s heard enough and practically storms into the room. Irene backs off of Sherlock immediately, who stares up at John in surprise, but doesn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest. There’s no reason to be, John reminds himself. Sherlock Holmes can flirt with whomever he wants to; it’s not like John had any claim on him as his person.

“Too late,” Irene whispers loud enough for them to hear.

“That’s not the end of the world; that’s John,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly.

“Yes, it is,” John replies a bit too loud. “I thought we could hang out,” he adds.

They both look over at Irene.

“Alright, I’ll be going, then. I have important business to attend, anyway. And I wouldn’t want to be in the way of two bonded souls,” she winks at John before leaving. 

John rolls his eyes. _Of course she bloody knows._

Once she’s gone, John sinks down into the armchair he always considered his; the one Irene Adler sat in a couple of minutes ago spreading her odour. Sherlock is still in his chair, his hands draped underneath his chin. He’s wearing a black suit with a white shirt, instead of one of his dressing gowns. John wonders whether he doesn’t wear them around Irene or whether it’s just a coincidence.

“Now what was that about?!” 

“What was what about?”

“Irene – she flirted with you! Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

There’s a small smile on Sherlock’s lips before he responds. “So what? It didn’t mean anything.”

“It certainly did to her.”

“Why does it bother you?”

“It doesn’t bother me. “John realises the lie once the words are out. It _does_ bother him. He’s just not sure why. He has Mary, for god’s sake, and Sherlock has never shown any sign of bothering or complaint about her.

“You don’t have to look out for me. I can handle a bit of flirting, John,” Sherlock interrupts his thought process.

He leans forward in his chair until John can see the brown spot in his right eye. His voice is deep when he continues. “Besides, it’s not like I’ve never done it before.”

John clears his throat. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? When he can’t think of a reply, he stays silent, focusing on Sherlock’s eyes instead. It was probably meant as a joke, but now that John returns his gaze, Sherlock doesn’t speak, either. His eyes lay on John. All of a sudden, there’s that sort of electricity in the air John only sensed once before – when he first touched Sherlock’s hand. This time they’re not even touching, but the tension is almost palpable. 

They must’ve been staring at each other for a while when the door flies open to reveal Mrs. Hudson.

“Huhu! Sherlock, there’s a m– “ 

John pushes back into his chair – he hasn’t even realised leaning forward – and quickly stands up.

“Sorry, boys, I didn’t mean to interrupt...”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says. He stands up as well, closing the buttons on his suit jacket. “Where is he?”

John has no idea who Sherlock is talking about, but he follows him and Mrs. Hudson downstairs nonetheless. The man waiting for them looks suspiciously like he’s working for the Palace, again. 

“Have you come to take us away again?” Sherlock asks him.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. And I don’t think you’ll decline.” He hands Sherlock an envelope that contains two Business Class boarding passes for Sherlock and John for the flight number 007 to Baltimore.

Sherlock looks up from the envelope. With one quick nod of agreement their evening plans are settled. John, who intended to spend a quiet night with Sherlock chatting and maybe getting revenge on Cluedo, feels the adrenaline in his veins. The weight of the sig rests reassuringly in his coat pocket. The game is on.

___

_December 2010_

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but Mary wants us to spend Christmas with her friends in Edinburgh. She says we might even have snow on Christmas Eve,” John says, walking straight up to the sofa at 221B and sinking into it with a long sigh. 

“It’s fine, really. I wanted to work on the carpet experiment anyway.” 

Sherlock tries to sound convincing. The least he wants is to make John feel obligated to spend time with him. Sherlock knows John feels torn between spending his free time with Mary and him; and he hates it. He doesn’t want to be a burden; an obligation for John just because they happen to be bonded by fait.

They tried spending time together, all three of them, but for some reason it didn’t quite work out. That reason being that Mary hates Sherlock, understandingly. Whenever he’s with her, Sherlock can feel her eyes on him – and not in a good way. So far her love for John has kept her from saying or doing anything about it, but Sherlock knows she’s furious inside, probably burning with jealousy. 

“Are you sure? Maybe I could come back on the 26th and we could –“

“John, spend Christmas with your wife. I told you I’m fine!” The words come out harsher than Sherlock meant to. He takes off his scarf and throws it onto the black armchair.

“Oh, okay.” John leans back further into the sofa. His eyes are small from sleep-deprivation and he blinks several times. 

They just got back from a particularly long, yet boring case. John has spent the last couple of days more or less living at 221B, only returning home for sleep and showers – not that Sherlock would mind. He enjoyed the company, and a very selfish part of him wishes that John could stay. He wonders again what their lives would look like had he met John prior to Mary.

“You should get some rest,” he says to John, whose eyes are already closing in an increased frequency. 

“I know, Mary’s gonna pick me up in a couple of hours. I’m just gonna lay down for a bit, if that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

Sherlock turns his attention to the petri dishes stacked in the kitchen – he should probably clean the room soon – and starts examining the liquids on potential coli bacteria. 

After a while he goes back into the living room to find John asleep. He’s lying on his side, his head draped underneath a small cushion. His lips are slightly parted and his left arm is hanging down, almost touching the floor. Sherlock decides to throw a blanket over him and gives his arm a light squeeze while doing so. Suddenly John shifts in his sleep until he’s more on his back, causing Sherlock to freeze in his movement. 

From this angle, he can see every shadow on John’s face. His eyes are closed but Sherlock knows their distinguishing colour of grey-blue by heart. He hovers over John, staring at his silvery hair, his grey stubble and the creases on John’s forehead, thinking about that distinct smile of John’s that makes Sherlock feel like he’s the only person in the world, when all of a sudden he just knows. It feels like being hit by a stone wall; it feels like falling off the edge of a cliff.

He steps back abruptly, making sure to be as quiet as possible. This is absolutely _not_ good. 

Frantically, he runs his hands through his hair and starts pacing the flat back and forth. Has the only constancy in his life, the one thing he was sure would never happen to him, finally come to pass? Did he really do something as ludicrous and predictable and ordinary as fall in love with his person, his _married_ person? 

Trying to think back, he doesn’t even remember the exact moment he fell in love. Was it when John pulled him from a tank and saved his life? Or when he spilled his soup and giggled for four minutes straight after Sherlock told him the victim had committed suicide during one of their Cluedo nights? Was it even one distinct moment, or the culmination of their time spent together?

Sherlock has always been aware of the fact that he wants John around him constantly, that he wants to be the sole focus of John’s attention. But so far, he assumed that it was the nature of a deep friendship, combined with the fact that John is his person, that drove him to these impulses. Right from the beginning of their acquaintance, Sherlock has been intrigued by John. The ex-army doctor was by far the most interesting man he met in a long time, if not ever. Something between them just clicked, and Sherlock never knew anyone whose company he so deeply appreciated, even longed for. After their initial time apart, John became his colleague, then friend, then best friend. The more he got to know him, the more he remained a mystery to Sherlock. Realising that his person wasn’t just a good-looking doctor, but in fact a kind and incredibly brave man, made Sherlock’s chest feel oddly warm inside. Now, after almost a year of knowing him, Sherlock finds that there are still more parts of John he’d like to discover. Being his best friend – even being his person – doesn’t seem enough anymore.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. John loves Mary, obviously, so nothing’s going to change. Besides, he’s entering dangerous territory – of disadvantages and chemical defects, as he claimed himself a couple of months ago. 

But just because Sherlock knows that they cannot be together, doesn’t mean he can choose not to love John. 

John, unaware of Sherlock’s revelation and subsequent panic attack, wakes up. Sherlock quickly sits down in his armchair and steeples his hands underneath his chin, trying to appear deep in thought. He watches John putting aside the blanket with a confused look and stretching his arms. 

Sherlock takes another shaky breath. Everything is fine; nothing has changed. 

John clears his throat, and then asks in a husky voice, “How long was I asleep?”

“I don’t know, John, it’s not like I’ve been watching you.”

“Still a bit grumpy, are we? Don’t worry; you’ll be rid of me in half an hour.”

_I don’t want to be rid of you._

“We’ll exchange presents after Christmas, then?”

“Yes. I can’t wait for you to see mine,” John replies with a smirk. Sherlock doesn’t have the heart to tell him he already deduced it three weeks ago. 

They spend the remaining time in companionable silence, John watching television and Sherlock reading a scientific article on urban bee-keeping; an attempt to calm himself. He still can’t help enjoying this flicker of domesticity. It feels comfortable; it feels right for John to be here. The cruel laws of nature make time fly by, and after what feels like a couple of minutes, Mrs. Hudson announces Mary’s arrival. She’s wearing a red coat, her cheeks flushed from the cold outside. She walks into the living room to give John a quick kiss while Sherlock tries to look away. She then walks over to him and awkwardly shakes his hand. 

“We better get going, honey, the traffic is horrible,” she tells John.

“Yes, you’re right.” 

Sherlock realises that John wants to hug him before leaving, so he quickly extends his hand in order for John to shake it, instead.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock. I’ll see you between the years.”

“Merry Christmas. To both of you,” Sherlock adds with a look over John’s shoulder. There’s a smile on Mary’s face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

When John turns around to leave, Mary tells him she’ll be right behind. Sherlock’s stomach swirls – did she notice anything? Are his emotions written all over his face? Finally, after the downstairs door is slammed shut, she returns her attention to him.

“Sherlock, do you remember when I asked you to spend time with John because it made him feel better?”

“Of course I do. Why?”

“Because now I’m asking you to do the opposite.”

Sherlock isn’t sure he understands her request correctly. Surely she can’t mean that. When he doesn’t reply, Mary continues.

“Keep your distance; leave John alone. Tell him you don’t enjoy his company anymore.” 

For the first time since he’s known her, Sherlock is sure to see pure hatred in Mary’s expression, without her trying to conceal it.

“And why would I do that?”

“For John’s sake, of course. You obviously don’t know him as well as I do, so trust me when I say it’s best for him. He’s been quite depressed lately.”

Sherlock blinks a couple of times. What is this woman talking about? Whenever John’s with him, he has shown nothing but content and happiness. Maybe that’s exactly the point.

“I don’t think he’s – “

“He is,” Mary interrupts. “Will you just keep your distance, then?”

She looks up at Sherlock and for a moment he feels sorry for her. Maybe it’s selfish; maybe it’s completely wrong – but he can’t give her the answer she wants to hear. 

“You know I can’t. Not unless he asks me to.”

Mary doesn’t reply.

___

_New Year’s Eve 2010_

He rings the doorbell. Sherlock isn’t expecting him so he doesn’t want to intrude. The woman who opens the door smiles at him, revealing a couple of dimples around her mouth and wrinkles around her eyes.

“Oh, dear, is everything all right?” Mrs. Hudson greets him after seeing the look on his face.

Trust the lady to deduce emotions better than anyone.

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. H., but don’t mind me. Aren’t you off to your sister’s?”

“I was just packing up everything, John. Would you like a cup of tea? I’m afraid I’m a bit late already but I could...”

“Oh no, thank you, I’m fine. I was just looking for –“

“He’s upstairs.” She squeezes his hand and lets him pass through the door. John is thankful for the landlady’s understanding. He tries to conjure a smile and wishes her a good start into the New Year.

Upstairs, John knocks on the living room door, knowing that Sherlock tends to ignore any sounds similar to door bells, and waits for him to answer. A couple of seconds later, the door flies open. Sherlock is wearing his whine-coloured dressing gown – one of John’s favourites – and has his violin tucked under his arm. He seems surprised to see John.

“John, I wasn’t expecting you,” he says while taking a step aside to let John enter.

“I know... I’m sorry. Are you busy?”

“No,” Sherlock replies quickly. He walks back into the living room and takes a seat in his chair, then points the violin bow to the empty chair opposite of him.

“What brings you here three hours before the New Year starts? I thought you and Mary were celebrating with friends.” He emphasises the last word as if it were an insult.

John sits down slowly, taking a deep breath. “Mary and I had a fight and now she’s spending New Year’s Eve with her friend Laura, so I thought I could spend it with you?” 

He knows it’s a bit not good that he ran off to the one person his wife just asked him to see less of, but he can’t help it. After Mary stormed off, he briefly considered calling Harry or Mike, but they probably both had other plans. He didn’t want to start the New Year with the telly and self-pity either, and his feet brought him to the comfort of Baker Street almost automatically. Besides, prior to their conversation he was going to ask Mary if they could invite Sherlock anyway. And now, after one of the biggest fights in his marriage so far, he needs his best friend. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sherlock asks while placing his violin onto the small table next to him.

John pauses. Does he want to tell Sherlock how they fought because of him? How Mary freaked out when John mentioned something Sherlock said during dinner? How she tried to force him to break off their contact? How he told his wife that he doesn’t want to stop spending time with his person? 

“No, I don’t think I want to.” Sherlock probably deduced it already. The thought makes John even more miserable.

“I brought booze,” he adds and shows Sherlock the whiskey bottle in his bag. It’s a sad attempt at drowning his problems in alcohol. His sister would be proud of him, John thinks. The whole issue is that Mary made up her mind too late. Had she told him that the thought of him and Sherlock together made her uncomfortable after a couple of weeks, he would’ve understood. He was surprised by her openness towards their friendship, anyway. She even encouraged him to spend time with Sherlock when John still felt too guilty. So why did she change her mind now, when Sherlock already took a spot in John’s heart, when not seeing him anymore just isn’t an option? Why does she try to forbid their contact now that they’re such good friends? What made her change her mind?

Deep down John knows that he can’t only blame Mary for the fight. He should’ve been more understanding, but then what? The hard truth is that he’s not willing to sacrifice his friendship with Sherlock for Mary. So what else is he supposed to do?

Sherlock interrupts his thoughts by holding two empty glasses in front of his face. John takes them and fills them with the golden liquor. He hands one of them two Sherlock who touches his glass against John’s. John doesn’t think they ever shared a bottle of whiskey before.

“To what are we toasting?” he asks.

“To 2011, of course. And to me finally getting rid of that ridiculous hat,” Sherlock says pointing over towards the greyish hat hanging on the hall-stand.

John laughs. “It’s a deer stalker, and you won’t be getting rid of it as long as I’m around.” 

The deer stalker started out as one of Sherlock’s disguises. Ever since John started his blog, Sherlock has been getting more and more public attention, making his undercover work harder to fulfill. The deer stalker somehow turned into his signature piece. John knows that Sherlock hates it, so naturally he would never tell Sherlock that he finds it endearing.

“Then maybe I should stop having you around,” Sherlock replies. It’s meant as a joke but Sherlock is unaware that he’s hit a sore spot. John falls silent. Would it be better that way? Certainly easier, but not better.

“Er, maybe I should clarify that I was joking.”

“I know. Sorry I was just thinking about Mary.”

Sherlock leans forward slightly, studying John’s face for a while, making John self-conscious. “You don’t want to think of her right now, do you?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you just stop, then?”

John has to laugh. “It’s not that easy for me. I don’t have a mind palace to go to and just… delete things.”

“I could try to take your mind off it.”

John almost spills his whiskey. He stares at Sherlock, who takes another sip of his drink, apparently unaware of the innuendo.

“What would you suggest?”

Instead of a reply, Sherlock rushes out of his chair with a flexibility that shouldn’t be allowed at his age anymore and picks up his violin. After fixing the tune he turns towards the window, facing away from John, and starts playing. Upon the first couple of notes, John starts to relax. He shifts deeper into his chair and watches Sherlock’s back slightly moving with the rhythm of the music.

John has never been much interested in classic music. He was astonished by Sherlock’s knowledge of all the major European composers of the last three hundred centuries, but it’s not like he could name more than a handful of them himself. He only heard Sherlock play a complete piece once before, on Mrs. Hudson’s birthday. All the other times when he found Sherlock with his violin he was only playing a couple of notes or lightly tucking the strings whilst being deep in thought. Now Sherlock is playing complete songs – or is it one very long piece? – from a probably famous composer who John doesn’t recognise. It’s the most fascinating melody John has ever heard. He’s sure his enjoyment doesn’t solely come from the composer’s abilities but from Sherlock’s brilliance. In another life, he could’ve definitely been an orchestra musician. 

Sherlock turns around slightly, causing John to see his long fingers flying over the violin, almost too fast for his eyes to see. His head is tilted in order to hold the instrument in place, his long arm moves up and down with the bow in hand. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and the expression on his face is of pure relaxation. It’s different from his mind-palace face, less stressed but also more focused, and suddenly John thinks that Sherlock has never looked more beautiful. He wishes he could take a picture of this moment and frame it in his mind.  
After a small eternity, Sherlock stops playing and opens his eyes. John quickly looks away and clears his throat, trying to conceal the fact that he spent the last couple of minutes staring at Sherlock. 

Sherlock places the violin back in its case before sitting down. He takes the whiskey in hand and raises an eyebrow at the already half empty bottle. John must’ve been drinking unconsciously while listening. His head feels slightly dizzy at the realisation. 

“Sorry, that was me.” He grins at Sherlock.

Sherlock pours himself another glass. “Did it work?”

John has to think about what Sherlock means for a second before nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah, definitely. Who was that?”

“That was me playing but I don’t blame you for not remembering, given the amount of alcohol you just consumed in the last half hour.”

John laughs. “I meant the composer.” His tongue feels thick in his mouth.

“Bach’s violin concerto in A minor. I usually prefer Mendelssohn but his music is a bit too cheerful for the occasion.”

Sherlock continues to tell John the differences between Bach and Mendelssohn. He speaks just as passionately about the two musicians as if he were talking about a triple homicide. That’s one of the things that John has always found intriguing about him – the man has the most specific and encyclopedic knowledge of possible bruising after death, yet he doesn’t know anything about the solar system. John listens intently whilst drinking, even though he already feels way too tipsy.

When Sherlock has finished the open discussion with himself, it’s close to midnight. John proposes they go out to watch the fireworks, so they wrap themselves up in their coats and leave the flat. Outside, the streets are already crowded with people. 

Sherlock bends close to him and says: “I think I know where we could watch in peace.” 

John nods but raises an eyebrow when Sherlock turns back around to 221B. He follows his friend upstairs again until they are in the hallway. Sherlock opens a wooden door in the ceiling that somehow John never noticed before and lets John pass through. The stairs are shaky and tiny and John is thankful for Sherlock right behind him, but he manages eventually and finds himself in the cold once more. 

On the roof of the building, they are rewarded with an astonishing view. The air is crispy cold so John tucks his hands into his coat pockets. He feels Sherlock’s presence right behind him.

“We should keep our distance from the edge.”

John realises that Sherlock might be a bit tipsy, too. They decide to sit down on a small step leading down from the chimney and wait for the New Year to begin. From their position, they have a clear view over the London sky. They keep talking quietly, their breaths mingling in the winter air, filling it with the smell of smoky, peat whiskey. The noises from the street underneath are still audible. 

Once people start shouting a count-down, John turns to Sherlock thinking there’s no one he’d rather start the New Year with. When the fireworks start, the sky turns into a spectacle of lights and colours, giving John chills. He smiles upwards, forgetting his worries and enjoying the moment instead.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Yes.” 

When he turns to Sherlock, he can see that he’s not looking at the sky; he’s staring at him. Their eyes meet and for a moment John forgets the fireworks completely. Sherlock is the first to look away.

“Happy New Year, John,” he says, his gaze now locked to the sky. 

“Happy New Year,” John replies, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, the moment Sherlock desperately longed for, feared with all his heart and was sure would never occur, has arrived. He stays in the courtyard with his phone in hand, and for a moment he sees himself in a different courtyard with John; a moment he has replayed a million times in his mind already, but instead of the usual pain he feels something a lot more dangerous blossoming inside of him. 
> 
> Hope.

_January 2011_

Sherlock wakes up with a pounding head the next morning. He slowly opens his eyes against the blinding light spreading across his bedroom. It takes him a second to remember the slip of emotion he showed on the roof top yesterday. _Stupid, stupid!_. He prays for the alcohol to have wrapped John into a state of oblivion. 

He detangles himself from the blanket and gets up in a rush, regretting it immediately. He throws over his whine coloured dressing gown and hurries into the kitchen. Luckily, John deposited the most necessary house-hold medicine in one of the cupboards a couple of months ago. Sherlock gulps down a pain killer with a whole glass of water, refills it and quietly enters the living room. 

John seems to just have woken up as well. He stretches his arms and blinks at Sherlock sleepily with a bare chest and a blanket wrapped around his torso, certainly being the most interesting person Sherlock has ever laid eyes on. The sight causes a knot to form in Sherlock’s chest. _Sentiment_ a voice in the back of his head whispers. The voice sounds suspiciously like Mycroft’s. 

“Do you have – “ John starts, then smiles up as Sherlock hands him an aspirin and the glass of water.

“You brought me some in August, remember?”

“I honestly don’t even remember how I ended up here, Sherlock.” John replies pointing at the couch.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Sherlock smirks. 

John suggested sleeping on the floor that seemed ‘sooo comfy’ the other night, but Sherlock convinced him to move to the sofa instead. It was the first night John actually spent at Baker Street sleeping, not counting when he had a nap on the couch two weeks ago. Even though he stays at Sherlock’s flat regularly during cases, John always goes home for sleep. Yesterday, Sherlock was quite nervous about the prospect of John staying at 221B. He considered offering him his bed, but found it too obvious. There aren’t many people in the world whom he would willingly allow to sleep in his bed. 

“Bloody hell. How much did I drink?” John asks, rubbing his hands through his face.

“You seem to have become a light-weight.”

“Wait a second, I remember you being quite tipsy as well!” 

“Sherlock Holmes does not get tipsy,” Sherlock replies matter-of-factly. He takes the empty glass from John and brings it back into the kitchen.

“You can take a shower if you like,” he shouts towards the living room. 

“That seems like a good idea.”

A couple of minutes later, John emerges from the bathroom, his hair still wet from the shower. He’s wearing his old shirt and trousers again and leans back onto the kitchen counter, rubbing a towel through his hair. Sherlock has never imagined kissing John before a few days ago, and he hasn’t stopped imagining it since.

He shakes off the thought and places a mug filled with coffee next to John – no sugar, just milk. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything for breakfast.”

“That’s okay – coffee is great,” John replies with his deep, post-alcoholic voice. Sherlock watches him lightly blow onto the liquid before taking a sip.

They stand in the kitchen in silence, both drinking their cups of coffee. Apparently John doesn’t recall the awkward moment on the roof top, as he doesn’t show any indication of resentment or anger.

“I should be heading home soon,” John says after emptying his cup. 

“Right, of course.” Sherlock feels exposed. The reminder that Baker Street isn’t John’s home is too cruel for this early hour.

He accompanies John downstairs to find Mrs. Hudson just returning from her sister’s – or was it her friend’s? – house. She greets them cheerfully and invites them both for a cup of tea. John declines politely, telling her that Mary is probably expecting him. 

They say their goodbyes in the hallway as if nothing happened.   
Nothing _did_ happen, Sherlock reminds himself. 

After John has left, he follows Hudders into her kitchen. They sit down with their steaming mugs and Mrs. Hudson tells him about her start into the New Year. Sherlock falls silent, only half listening. His thoughts start to wander to John – what is he going to tell Mary? Will he obey and stop seeing him? Why didn’t he agree to it right away?

“Sherlock, dear, do you want to talk about it?” Mrs. Hudson asks, bringing him back to the present.

“Sorry?”

“I can see that your heart is uneasy, so talk to me, please.”

“My heart is not – what’s that even supposed to mean?!”

“It means I can tell that you’re going through a rough time, both of you. Did anything happen yesterday?”

“Of course nothing happened between us. John is... he is –“

“Your person.”

“He’s much more than that.” 

Sherlock starts to think about the way John cares for his patients, about how he treats victims’ bereaved with a kindness Sherlock could never imitate, how he saved Sherlock’s life over and over again, risking his own in the process, how he’s the only person in the world willing to accept Sherlock for who he truly is. Words don’t seem to do him justice, but Sherlock tries anyway.

“He’s the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I’ve ever been fortunate enough to meet. He’s the best man I’ve ever known,” he concludes.

“Oh Sherlock!”

“He’s also married.”

“I know. But there’s one thing I want you to remember, dear. A bond between souls is ancient, older than the planet. It dissolves the difference between the person we want to be with and the person we are meant to be with and unites them in one.” Mrs. Hudson looks at him expectantly.

“I don’t know what you’re hinting at,” Sherlock has to admit.

“Some day you will.” His landlady smiles at him. “And I hope I will live to see it.”

___

_February 2011_

John throws another jumper into his suitcase whilst humming the Coca-Cola Christmas jingle. He’s not sure why he’s in such a good mood – it might be because of the fabulous spring weather; it might be because he’s spending the weekend at Baskerville looking for a gigantic hound. He adds a scarf to the mess in his case and jogs down the stairs. 

After a long week, he’ll finally have a couple of days off, time to step back from his ever-going arguments with Mary and time to spend with his best friend. He hasn’t seen Sherlock in quite a while. After New Year’s Eve, John agreed to reduce his free time spent with Sherlock to once or twice a week, for the sake of having some peace at home. However, ever since John mentioned his fight with Mary, Sherlock has been strangely distant, causing John to involuntarily spend even less time with him. Whenever John came over for a visit, Sherlock was either busy with experiments or not home at all. They only saw each other a couple of times since the beginning of the year, mostly during cases, but even then it felt strange. It’s almost as if Sherlock refuses to talk about anything else except The Work – which isn’t something he didn’t do before – but somehow John always felt like the exception to Sherlock’s rules.

Two days ago, however, John got a call from a number that made his heart perform a tiny jump. Sherlock told him about Henry Knight and his post-traumatic monster and asked him to join the investigation. John agreed immediately. He feared that convincing Mary wouldn’t be an easy task, but for some reason she didn’t seem all too interested in his weekend plans. Lately she’s been spending more of her evenings with friends from the gym, leaving John home alone or going out for a pint with Greg or Mike. God, he doesn’t even remember the last time he had sex.

Rushing out the door, John checks his watch again. He’s already late for Paddington station, where he’s supposed to meet Sherlock. Mary isn’t home from work, yet, so John decides to text her from the train. 

He arrives at the station twenty minutes later, scanning his environment for a tall figure in a long coat, when all of a sudden he notices that distinguishing feeling in his gut again, telling him that Sherlock is nearby. He finds him at the Fish & Chips counter, having an argument with the owner about the difference between Dutch and English chips. 

“The size is most certainly not the only distinguishing feature,” Sherlock tells the angry-looking man behind the counter.

“What about taste, thickness, salt content, amount of oil –“ 

“Okay, Sherlock, I think he gets it,” John intervenes.

“Oh John, you’re here, that’s good. Maybe you can tell me about this man’s authority to sell chips if he clearly has no idea about the most basic European types?”

“Sherlock, we should go. The train will be here any minute.”

“But I haven’t ordered…”

“It’s fine,” John says with a glance at the man whose face is turning alarmingly red. “We’ll get you some once we arrive.”

Dragging Sherlock along, John heads towards the tracks. Luckily the train arrives just in time. They sit down in an empty cabin that reminds John a lot of the Hogwarts Express.

“So, the lack of crimes is slowly driving you mad?” John asks whilst sitting down.

“It’s hideous, John. The criminal classes have lost all creativity lately. I wouldn’t have even accepted this case if it wasn’t for our client’s pronunciation of his feared demon.”

“What?”

“You’ll know what I mean once you meet him. I had Mycroft book us two rooms in an Inn close to town so we should be able to visit Henry later today.”

“Is Mycroft doing secretary work for you now?”

“Well, somebody has to,” Sherlock says, giving John a look of incomprehension.

“Okay.” 

John settles in his chair, trying to come up with different pronunciations for the word ‘demon’ in his mind. As usual, a comfortable silence starts to unfold between them. Sherlock closes his eyes, apparently already in his mind palace. John can see his eyes moving behind closed lids, probably reading articles or sorting through files or whatever it is his brilliant mind does in there. His heart-shaped lips are slightly parted, and his fingers are pressed underneath his chin. John could watch him all day. 

When the train arrives in Dartmoor, John isn’t sure whether he did anything else. They rent a car in a shop near-by, which Sherlock has to drive due to John’s inability. He never needed a driving license in the army and never felt the urge to get it afterwards. Who needs a car in the cab-filled city anyway? John didn’t even know Sherlock could drive. He wonders whether his friend went to one of the posh driving schools of the suburbs that cost a fortune in his teens. 

They arrive after a quiet car ride at an Inn called _The Crossed Keys_. The picturesque cottage and the sand stone walls remind John of his home, where he spent his childhood with his father and Harry. It’s not a particularly fond memory, but he quickly dismisses the thought. He hasn’t even told Mary what he went through in his infancy, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever entrust anyone with the knowledge – except for maybe the posh git with the perfect parents next to him. 

Upon entering the Inn, the owner mistakes them for a couple – something John stopped caring about a long time ago – and hands John a set of keys. Whilst John investigates the foyer of the building, Sherlock is still outside chatting with one of the tourist guides. Wondering what the hell they’re talking about for so long, John decides to bring Sherlock a pint of beer to infer himself into the conversation. The tour guide claims to have seen the hound and, after a bit of convincing, shows them his piece of evidence, making John 50 pounds richer within minutes.

With a content smile on his face, John follows Sherlock back into the car. They arrive at the client’s house and John gets to know the person who’s responsible for his weekend trip. Albeit being an intelligent and nice fellow, Henry seems to be always on one’s guard, his eyes scanning his surroundings constantly. Being in his presence makes John feel weirdly paranoid as well. Over a cup of coffee, Sherlock reveals his plan to return to the moor at night, causing Henry’s already pale face to lighten a few shades. 

“At night? You want me to go out there at night?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, mimicking one of his fake-reassuring grins. 

“That’s your plan?” John intervenes.

“Of course.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“Listen, if there is a monster out there, John, there’s only one thing to do: find out where it lives.”

Fair enough, John thinks. In contrast to Sherlock, however, he knows what a confrontation can do to patients with chronic post-traumatic stress syndrome, so he tries to reassure Henry with the constancy of their presence and protection. Unfortunately, there really seems to be no other option if they want to find whatever’s been causing Henry’s distress for all those years.

Once the darkness has finally reached Dartmoor, the three of them make their way to Dewer’s Hollow, the place where the client’s nightmare began. Equipped with a handful of flashlights, John feels secure next to his tall companions. It’s not like he believes in the gigantic hound story, but he wouldn’t exactly enjoy being out here on his own either. 

When they first enter the forest, the darkness increases, and John is sure to hear a couple of foxes scream in the distance. After a while of walking in silence, he hears a rustling sound to his right, causing him to stop in his movement. Sherlock and Henry, apparently unaware of his abrupt standstill, continue walking down the trail. 

John slowly takes a deep breath; he can do this, he is a soldier after all. He dealt with things far worse than giant pets in Afghanistan and, frankly, in London, ever since meeting his madman. Cautiously, he walks towards the source of the sound, tightening his grip on the flashlight. He circulates a massive tree and finds himself amidst a couple of smaller bushes. From his current position, he can see a flash of lights going on and off in the distance. What the bloody hell is going on? Is this Morse code? John decides to retrieve his notebook and starts scribbling down the transcription just to be sure. 

_U M Q R A_

Without having the slightest idea of the word’s meaning, he quietly makes his way back to the trail; trying to keep track of Sherlock’s shadow. He cannot see their features anymore, only the tall figures of two men in the distance. 

He doesn’t even realise whispering Sherlock’s name, until an animalistic howl interrupts the steadiness of his voice. It’s a sound unlike anything John has ever heard, causing a shiver to run down his spine. His steps turn into a run in the search of his companions, but they’ve left the trail, making it unable for John to see either of them. John tries to sense whether Sherlock’s in any danger, but he can’t fully focus on their bond with the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Another howl fills the air, and John is blinded with fear. He runs towards the moor as fast as his legs allow, his lungs already burning from the cold of the night. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he can see the shadows of two men stumbling back towards the trail a few metres away. John doesn’t miss the expression of horror on Sherlock’s face once he reaches him.

“Thank god you’re okay! Did you hear that?”

Sherlock, however, doesn’t seem to share John’s enthusiasm of their reunion – and walks straight past him. 

“We saw it, we saw it!” Henry is yelling behind him.

“No, I didn’t see anything.”

Henry joins John in trying to catch up with Sherlock. They must be looking like two fools, attempting to follow Sherlock’s large footsteps in the dark.

“What? What are you talking about?” The desperation is clear in Henry’s voice.

“I didn’t see anything,” Sherlock says, emphasizing each syllable. His voice is colder than the crispy night air.

___

Sherlock doesn’t even recall getting back to the hotel. He finds himself in a large chair next to a fireplace, with a shaking whiskey glass in hand. John is uttering words, but he fails to understand their meaning. 

What had Mummy once told him about panic attacks? ‘Take a deep breath – in through the nose, out through the mouth. Close your eyes if it helps. You’re going to be okay.’ Sherlock tries following through with the steps, but his mind is still swirling. 

How is this possible? 

_How?_

“… cause Henry found them; so did the tour guide bloke. We all heard something… Maybe we should just look for whoever’s got a big dog.”

“Henry’s right,” Sherlock hears himself say.

“What?!”

“I saw it too, John.” Sherlock looks up at John, who moves forward in his chair. The sight of John’s face keeps the rising panic at bay, at least for a little while.

“You saw what?”

“A hound, out there in the Hollow,” he admits through gritted teeth. “A gigantic hound.”

Sherlock looks away as he feels the burning anticipation of tears behind his eyes. 

“Er, look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this, okay? Let’s just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the facts.” John’s voice, now soft and tender, has a soothing effect. Sherlock takes another shaky breath.

“Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.” He looks down at his shaking hand. “Look at me, John, I’m afraid.” 

He doesn’t like to admit this outburst of human emotions, nor the mere presence of them in his rational mind; but if he’s going to tell one person, it would always be John.

“Sherlock?”

“I’ve always been able to keep myself distant… divorce myself from feelings.” Sherlock isn’t even sure what he’s talking about anymore. Is this still about fear? His hand continues to tremble.

“My body’s betraying me. Interesting, emotions. I always considered them the grit in the lens, the fly in the ointment.” Sherlock slams the glass down onto the table, the golden liquor stirring inside.

“Sherlock, there’s nothing wrong with being afraid.” John shifts forward in his chair again. “We all are, sometimes.”

“I don’t recall you ever being afraid, John.”

Getting the focus off him is a welcoming opportunity. But it’s not the only reason for Sherlock’s implied question. Curiosity is always involved when it comes to John Watson.

“Are you kidding me? I’m afraid all the time!” John takes a sip of his beer, as if bracing himself for a long monologue. Sherlock notices that his own breathing is slowly returning to normal speed.

“I was afraid in Afghanistan; I was afraid when I saw you floating in a tank; I was afraid of getting married; I was afraid almost all of my childhood.” He stops abruptly. Sherlock isn’t sure whether John regrets what he just admitted, but there seems to be something more to it. 

“I was afraid of ever meeting you,” he adds.

Sherlock feels his heart skip a beat as the words sink in. He understands why a married non-person would be afraid to meet his person, but the logical conclusion doesn’t provide the comfort it should.

“I’m sorry,” John says.

“It’s fine, John, really. Do you want to talk about what happened in your childhood?” Sherlock attempts a neutral tone.

“I don’t know. To be honest, I haven’t told anyone, not even my former therapist…”

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock interrupts. He suddenly realizes what a great deal this is for John. It’s also a sign of his trust, something Sherlock doesn’t take for granted.

They both take a sip of their drinks in silence. Sherlock feels the burning liquor running down his throat, and he focusses on the feeling of it. 

After a couple of minutes, John starts talking anyway. He tells Sherlock everything; the death of his mother causing his father to drown his grief in alcohol and to vent his anger on his son’s body; his subsequent unemployment and their eviction; his father’s incomprehension of his daughter’s sexuality; and his death due to liver failure before John joined the army. Sherlock sits still listening, not adding anything to the conversation. His frustration and anger rise with John’s narration. How could such bad things happen to such a good human being? How could anyone in their right mind treat a child like this? How could John, despite everything he went through in his infancy, turn out to be the most caring and understanding man Sherlock has ever known? 

“Despite everything, Clara and I never got along great. I guess deep down I always saw her as a liability, which is awful I know, but if it hadn’t been for her, I would have left home earlier. Does that make me a horrible person?” 

He looks up at Sherlock again, after staring at the table for the last ten minutes. Sherlock fights the urge to lean forward and embrace John with all his strength. The hound, Henry Knight, Sherlock’s panic attack, Baskerville, none of these things matter anymore. 

“It does not, John. If anything, you staying shows that you are the complete opposite of horrible. I’m so incredibly sorry that you had to go through this.” 

There’s a small smile on John’s face, but it’s filled with sadness. Sherlock isn’t sure whether he should add more; tell John what he would’ve done with his joke of a father had he known him personally, but he decides against it. Some things are better left unsaid, and Sherlock has the feeling that John doesn’t want him to comment on it right now. Maybe they’ll talk about it again eventually, but this evening has already been too emotionally drained for both of them to handle.

“I’m afraid of what I saw earlier, John.”

John sits up a bit straighter, changing his composure immediately. He looks at Sherlock curiously, apparently thankful for the change of topic.

“We’ll figure this out, I’m sure of it.”

After finishing their drinks, they make their ways to the upstairs floor, aiming for their adjacent hotel rooms. When turning the locker to his door, Sherlock can hear John clearing his throat.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

John, clenching his left hand into a fist, looks up at Sherlock with an indeterminable expression. “I’m glad I _do_ know you. And I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

All Sherlock can do is nod, because he’s afraid of the reply he’d give. 

___

“So, gentlemen, where shall I drop you off?” the cab driver asks. 

Outside, the cloudless black sky allows John to see the stars from afar. He stares out of the window, purposefully ignoring the person sitting next to him.

“It’s late; we should spend another night at the Inn and leave tomorrow morning,” said person says to him. John doesn’t respond.

“We’re staying at The Crossed Keys,” he adds towards the cabbie.

John pinches the back of his nose and closes his eyes. It was a bloody long day; during which he was entrapped in a laboratory; found out that he had been drugged; returned to the Hollow; kept their client from killing himself; shot a dog; ran after a surprisingly fast senior murderer and watched him die during an explosion. 

On the plus side, they – or rather Sherlock – finally solved the case. As usual, he was able to put the pieces together using his mind palace. Apparently Bob Franklyn, a scientist at Baskerville who participated in a secret military project called ‘The HOUND Project’ some twenty years ago, used a drug to fill Henry’s heart with fear after killing his father. The project, in trying to create an anti-personnel weapon to use against American enemies, accidentally created a drug causing hallucinations, paranoia and frontal lobe damages, amongst other things. The experiment was dismissed, much to the displeasure of the enthusiastic Bob Franklyn, who decided to continue working on the drug on British grounds. 

Whilst Sherlock and John solved Mr. Knight’s cause of death twenty years too late, his son Henry disappeared into the Hollow after attacking his therapist Dr. Mortimer. When they arrived at the moor alongside with Greg, John and Sherlock found Henry on the verge of committing suicide. They were only able to stop him by giving him a long overdue explanation; and by killing the dog which was the object of their drugged imaginations. Once Bob Franklyn arrived wearing a mask, Sherlock came to the conclusion that the Hollow was a chemical mine field feeding their minds with the drug, allowing Bob to keep drugging Henry with the hallucinogen whenever he returned to the crime scene of his father’s murder. Reaching that conclusion, however, wasn’t the end to the case. Bob and Henry ran off into the night, one chasing a murderer, the other running from arrest. Storming after them, John quickly realized the direction Bob was headed – the mine field close to the moor. They weren’t fast enough to stop him from trapping onto a mine, nor from stopping him to lift his foot.

Now, they’re on their way back to the Inn. Despite all the events taking place in the last hour, John hasn’t forgotten the incident at the lab earlier. He’s still pissed, to say the least. Once they arrive back at the hotel, he storms out of the car, leaving Sherlock to pay the ride for once. It has gotten too late for the Inn to still be open, so John fishes for the front door keys in his pockets. The yard is empty and quiet, and apart from a tiny street lamp there’s only the moon adding light to the scenery. After half a minute of unsuccessful searching, John can hear the car driving off into the distance and large footsteps approaching from behind. 

“Is everything alright, John?” a deep voice asks.

John momentarily gives up on finding the keys, turning around with a loud sigh to look up at the man in front of him.

“Oh yes, I’m fine, completely fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I mean who doesn’t love being treated like a lab rat!”

There’s a blank expression on Sherlock’s face. “Sarcasm?”

“Since when did you become an expert on sarcasm?” 

“I can sense that you’re feeling distressed,” Sherlock admits. It’s rare for either of them to mention their bond so openly.

“You thought the drug was in the sugar,” John explains, crossing his arms. “You were convinced it was.”

Sherlock quickly looks away. “Which train would you like to take tomorrow?” he asks in a casual tone. “There’s one leaving at 9:30.”

“You locked me in that bloody lab!”

“I had to, it was an experiment.”

“An experiment?!” 

“Shh, you’re waking up the other guests.”

“I don’t bloody care! I was terrified, Sherlock. I was scared to death!” John feels the frustration of the last weeks, or maybe even the last year, stirring up inside him, adding fuel to his anger.

Sherlock’s green eyes find his again. “I thought the drug was in the sugar, so I put the sugar in your coffee. I wasn’t to know that you’d already been exposed to the gas previously, so I arranged everything with Major Barrymore.”

“You can’t just use people for such things without their consent, Sherlock. It’s dangerous!” John yells. 

Sherlock stares at him, and for a second John believes to see guilt in his features. “It was all under scientific, laboratory conditions. You were never in any danger.”

“You sod! I didn’t bloody know that! Don’t you dare ever do this to me again!” 

John breaks off and stares up at Sherlock. Somehow his hands have found their way around the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, causing him to be hauled close against his friend. Sherlock is still staring at him, with his eyes wide open and an expression on his face that John doesn’t recall ever seeing before. 

John swallows, because all of a sudden his mouth is too dry and Sherlock’s mouth is too close yet not close enough, and then he crosses the remaining distance between them and crushes their lips together. After a short pause of hesitance, John finds himself pressed against the stone wall by Sherlock’s lean body, kissing him back intensely; and John’s mind goes blank. The kiss is passionate and urgent, and John craves for more. They part their mouths and deepen the kiss simultaneously, their lips and tongues moving against each other in perfect rhythm. All thoughts leave John’s mind except for the shattering clarity that this is where he truly belongs. It’s unlike anything he has ever experienced. The sensation of Sherlock’s mouth against his makes him feel as if all his life he saw the world in black and white, and only now realises the screaming colours. He never would’ve thought that a kiss could connect him to another person so completely, so irretrievably. 

When Sherlock presses him closer to the outside wall, John is glad for the support of the stone cold wall, forming an intriguing contrast to Sherlock’s warm body. He grabs another handful of Sherlock’s coat to get even closer, bringing a hand up into Sherlock’s hair; and can hear Sherlock lightly groan in response. One of Sherlock’s hands is around John’s neck while the other is wrapped around his back, caressing him ever so slightly. Hot waves of desire stir up in John’s loins, making themselves noticeable rather embarrassingly. He briefly thinks that he’ll never be able to stop, when Sherlock breaks off and steps back abruptly. 

John opens his eyes, panting heavily, his mind still trying to process what just happened, but once he notices the expression on Sherlock’s face, his heart drops to the floor. Sherlock looks shocked; practically horrified.

“I’m… sorry, John. So sorry,” he stumbles.

Without giving John the chance to reply, he storms off towards the door, opening it with a swift motion using the key in his left coat pocket.

“Sherlock, wait!”

John yells after him, but the door is already slammed shut, leaving John alone in the dark; his mind swirling.

The next morning John knocks on Sherlock’s door for a full three minutes, before a cleaning lady appears telling him that Mr. Holmes checked-out early. He really shouldn’t have expected anything different. John spent the whole night lying awake, thinking about the kiss; about Sherlock storming off and about the consequences for his marriage. He briefly considered knocking on Sherlock’s door, but he didn’t trust himself enough to not do anything stupid. Guilt and regret have been his companions ever since. This should never have happened. How could he be so selfish; so cruel to his wife and Sherlock? The two people he cares about most in the world, and he disappointed them both within the blink of an eye. Thinking about Mary back at their home waiting for him makes John want to vomit. No matter what their current situation is, she doesn’t deserve this; doesn’t deserve a husband like John. Mary deserves someone who loves her completely and unconditionally; but since last night John knows for certain that he’ll never be able to do so again. She trusted him enough to befriend his soulmate, and he couldn’t stop himself from misusing that trust the first chance he got. She will probably hate him for it, but he knows with absolute certainty that he’ll never forgive himself for betraying his wife. He never cheated on anyone before; always believing in honesty and faithfulness. 

So how had it come this far?

If he thinks back to the last couple of months, he knows that his relationship with Mary hasn’t been at its best. They have been spending less and less time together; neither really caring about the other’s activities – except for John’s time spent with Sherlock. But it had all started before meeting Sherlock, hadn’t it? After only two years of marriage, they managed to drift into a dull routine of co-existence, without as much as a ten minute conversation per day. They lived a life more like siblings than partners. Somehow John had always considered their behaviour normal; like any married couple behaved after the initial phase of infatuation. 

After meeting Sherlock, however, he realised that it can be different. The more time he spent with Sherlock, the more time he wanted to spend with him. He was never bored during the long afternoons at 221B, never preferred solace to Sherlock’s presence, never wanted more distance, or less conversations. Right from their very first encounter, John was hooked. He was drawn to the detective like a magnet. The first weeks spent apart were harder than he could’ve possibly imagined; as was the joy of being reunited. When he found Sherlock in the warehouse tank a couple of months later, he didn’t even think twice about jumping in after him. He would’ve gladly drowned to save Sherlock’s life. That’s when he knew he’d found his best friend. During The Woman case, John started to notice that his feelings for his person went beyond friendship. He was furious when he found Irene Adler flirting at Sherlock, yet he didn’t care when the new nurse flirted ambitiously with Mary. He tried blaming it all on the soulmate thing, pushing all emotions into the back of his mind, ignoring the feelings that where stirring up underneath the surface. Now it seems these repressed emotions were unwillingly released, coming at him like a flood and causing him to kiss the holy hell out of Sherlock in the middle of the night. 

John rushes back into his room, packing up his clothes and supplies from the tiny bathroom. He searches for his charger as his thoughts start to wander back to last night. Why did Sherlock run off after the kiss? Wasn’t it as eye-opening for him as it was for John? Does he not feel the same way? John’s heart clenches uncomfortably in his chest thinking about the expression of horror on Sherlock’s face. But before that, Sherlock had kissed him rather enthusiastically. The memory of his moaning give John chills; the way Sherlock had held him close and kissed him so passionately, pouring so many emotions into every touch. He had kissed him like he meant it; like he wanted to kiss John for a very long time. He couldn’t have possibly faked all that, or could he?

Checking out of the Inn, John doesn’t miss the owner’s quick glances of concern. He probably thinks they’re having a domestic – if only it were that simple. John awaits the cab outside – Sherlock has taken the car –, standing right where he stood with Sherlock last night. He’ll have to hold a couple of very uncomfortable conversations once he arrives in London. John mentally tries to brace himself for these conversations, for the heart-break he’ll inevitably cause, the rupture of his whole life, the uncertainty of his future. The only comforting thought is the blissful memory of a kiss forever imprinted on John’s mind.

___

Something is blinding his vision, but Sherlock doesn’t care whether it’s the anger towards himself or the regret of last night causing the tears to fall. It’s still dark outside once he leaves for the train station, and the lack of sleep is proving to be rather dangerous when driving. He doesn’t care about that, either. All he cares about is getting home fast enough to pack up his things and leave before anyone notices. He should probably inform Mycroft; and he should say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. His heart aches at the thought of leaving London and everything he cares about behind; but staying isn’t an option anymore.

After kissing John last night, how could he ever stay in the same place, breathe the same air as him knowing now what he’ll never have? How could he ever look at John again without wishing to kiss him? How could he ever talk about a random case with John when all he wants to say is how much he loves him? Sherlock blinks against the burning behind his eyelids, thinking about the single most perfect moment in his life. Although he can’t imagine the pain he’ll feel of being apart; he knows for sure that it can’t be worse than the pain of staying. 

But it’s not just that. Sherlock was accustomed to his unrequited love, present in the back of his mind during every conversation held with John; but after last night he could never look John, or Mary, in the eye again. When John grabbed him by his coat and came so unbearably close, Sherlock lost all control. He ruined John’s marriage because of his selfishness. When Mary asked him to stay away from John last year, Sherlock didn’t oblige. He wasn’t capable of stepping back, of letting John go in order to save his marriage. He was selfish in telling Mary that he wouldn’t leave unless John asked him to. The only gift he can give them now is doing exactly that; giving them a chance to mend their relationship with him out of the equation. Leaving London will make it easier for John to focus on his wife, and to spend less time with the sociopath he’s unfortunate enough to call his person. 

He always knew that love was a dangerous disadvantage; a chemical defect found on the losing side. Now he had the final proof. 

Sherlock ends up calling Mycroft from the train. As usual, his plague of a brother deduces everything he needs to know within the span of 20 seconds.

“Oh, Sherlock. Did I not warn you of getting involved?”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

“I can make amends for your accommodation. Where do you wish to run off to?”

“I don’t know;” Sherlock admits. “I want to go undercover, internationally, and do some ‘leg work’, as you’d call it.”

“I might have the perfect distraction for you. How good is your German?”

“ _Gut genug_ , I suppose.”

“Your destination would be completely untraceable, even for me. It’s a matter of international importance; and it would remain absolutely secret.”

“That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Excellent. I’ll have someone pick you up later. We’ll discuss the rest at my office.”

“Okay,” Sherlock pauses. “Thank you, Mycroft,” he adds before hanging up.

He spends the rest of the train ride in silence, watching the landscape pass by. His mind feels numb, any memory too painful to provide a distraction. He can’t even escape to his mind palace, seeming as John already awaits him at the front door. 

Back at 221B, Sherlock calls for Mrs. Hudson, who seems to be absent. He distantly recalls her mentioning another weekend away with her current partner, but Sherlock doesn’t remember whether it’s still the one with the wife in Winchester or not. Maybe it’s better for him to leave without his landlady trying to talk him out of it. He decides to call her from Germany; but the knowledge of not seeing her again hurts more than he anticipated.

Packing up the most important things takes longer than Sherlock expected. He spends a full six minutes with the monocular telescope in hand, the only Christmas present from John he’ll ever have. Sentiment gains the upper hand and the telescope lands in his suitcase, right next to the RAMCC mug John deposited at Baker Street last June. He stretches out packing because he knows that the hardest part is yet to come – the letter. He decided to leave John a letter to let him know that he left voluntarily and in safety.

After half an hour, Sherlock has to face the inevitable because he’s quite late already and should leave soon if he doesn’t want John to get back to London before he has left the country. He sits down in front of the kitchen table with a blanc sheet and a pen, trying to come up with a beginning. Should he confess John how he feels? It must be pretty obvious at this point. Denying his feelings appears ludicrous when they were so clearly written all over his face the other night. He settles on the truth and, after what feels like an eternity, places the paper into an envelope that he leaves on John’s armchair.

 

_Dear John,_

_with this letter I hope to give you an explanation for my sudden departure. First, you should know that I left willingly and that I am in a safe place, far away from London. Secondly, and most importantly, I want you to know that I am truly sorry for the hurt that I caused you and your wife._

_As you know, I’ve always considered myself superior to human emotions (like ‘Spock’, as you once called me). I never needed the company of other people, let alone their friendship. But after meeting you, everything changed. Even before we knew our souls were bonded, I realised that you were special; when you walked into the lab at Bart’s that very first day. You were, and still remain, an enigma to me; a puzzle I fail to unravel completely. After getting to know you, I found myself on the losing side of humanity for the first time in my life. No matter how much pain it has caused, I want you to know that I do not regret any of my choices, because loving you has taught me so much more than I could possibly put into words._

_I just wish I never would have enacted on it._

_I truly hope that one day you will find it in your heart to forgive me. By that time, I will be long gone. I think we spent enough time apart these last couple of weeks to know that my absence won’t cause either of us any physical harm. It’s hard to let go of the hand you were destined to hold; but knowing that I’m doing what’s best for you is making it a little easier._

_I hope that my departure will give you and Mary a chance at a fresh start. Please tell her that everything that happened between us was my fault. I hope you two will find a way back to each other, because above all, I want you to be happy, John. I want you to wake up and go to bed with that distinct smile on your face that causes your nose to crinkle (and never fails to make my heartbeat increase a little). I want you to be with the person who brings out the best in you, who makes you feel the way I feel around you. I want you to spend your life with someone who makes you completely and utterly happy, even if it isn’t with me._

_Lastly, I want to thank you, John. I never expected to be anybody’s person; and certainly not the person of the kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. So thank you, for allowing me to spend so much time with you and for bringing love into my heart. Thank you for being the only person in the world to compliment me on my deductions; for laughing at the absurdity of crime scenes with me; for chasing criminals across the streets of London; for bringing Dim Sum to our crap telly evenings; for accepting me for who I am; and for saving my life._

_As for me, I know that I won’t be happy with anyone else as long as you walk this earth – but that’s okay. I’ve been alone almost all my life, I will get used to it again. Not a day will go by that I won’t think of you; and I hope that you will one day think of the last thirteen and a half months with fondness in your heart._

_The game is never over, John. Please never forget that._

_Sherlock_

___

John slowly turns the key in the front door, his hand trembling the way Sherlock’s did only three days ago. It seems like an eternity has passed since then. He inhales another deep breath and enters his house. The hallway is quiet at first, but he knows Mary’s at home. He already texted her from the train saying that he’ll be back soon and that they’d need to talk. John places his luggage next to his shoes before taking off his coat. He finally hears someone rummaging around in the kitchen, so he fights the impulse to turn around and run away from the ruins of his marriage, and steps into the sitting area, instead. 

Mary is still in her pajama, leaning against the kitchen counter and apparently chopping something in half. The sight of his wife, knowing that this is the last time he’ll be able to call her that, causes John’s stomach to sink to the floor. Mary barely looks up when he enters, murmuring a few words of welcome from her current position.

“Hey,” John says, and then there’s an awkward silence between them. He doesn’t know where to begin. Should he just confess everything? Tell her what a horrible husband he’s been? Or should he begin by mentioning their issues, without bringing Sherlock into the conversation just yet?

“I’m making pasta for lunch,” Mary replies. Her tone is neutral, and John isn’t sure whether she already figured it all out.

“Mary, we need to talk.” John clears his throat, slowly sitting down in front of the kitchen table.

“It’s the vegetable sauce you like so much.”

“Mary, please. Can you put that down for a sec?”

She finally looks up, her eyes filled with nothing but indifference. She places the knife onto the counter and comes over, her movements careful like a scared deer, but her expression firm. She doesn’t sit down, though.

“What is it you want to talk about?”

“Okay. We need to talk about… us. It’s not how it used to be. We barely talk or do anything together. You’re gone constantly, and I run off to Sherlock whenever I get the chance. It’s tearing me apart to admit but I… I can’t be with you anymore,” John says, his voice cracking. It’s the hardest thing he ever had to admit. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

When Mary doesn’t respond, neither verbally nor non-verbally, John continues. “You deserve to be with someone who can give you his undivided attention, someone who devours you above anything else. And I’m afraid I’m not that person anymore. I’m so s–”

“What did you do, John? Spit it out.” 

John clenches his hand into a fist until his knuckles turn white. “I kissed Sherlock.”

The look on Mary’s face will haunt him for the rest of his life. It’s a mixture of disappointment, sadness, shock, despair and, above all, hatred.

“I never wanted this to happen, Mary, you have to believe me!”

“Did it mean anything?”

The question takes John off guard. “I…”

“Can you promise me it didn’t mean anything to you?” Mary’s gaze is demanding now, her eyes piercing right into John’s soul.

John slowly shakes his head. “No sorry, I can’t. I love you, Mary, I really do. But with him it’s – ”

“I cheated on you, John.”

There’s a pause during which John waits for the meaning of her words to sink in. He waits for a burning feeling of jealousy that never comes. All he feels is anger.

“What?!”

“I’ve been having an affair with a guy from the gym.”

“How long were you going to keep that from me?”

“As long as it took for you to realise that our marriage is over,” she states matter-of-factly, the sadness from earlier completely removed from her eyes.

“You… you made me feel like a complete dick-head! I thought I was being the worst husband ever; all the while you were shagging someone else?!”

“Don’t take my actions to justify yours, John, that’s not your style. You cheated on me long before I laid eyes on this man!” Mary shouts at him.

“I did _not_ cheat –“

“Do you think I’m blind, or dumb, or both? Do you think I missed the pining stares you threw Sherlock’s way whenever you thought he wasn’t looking? I know you, John, better than anyone. You fell in love with him long ago, it just took you a while to realise it. You and I are no different!”

“Oh, but you’re wrong, Mary. I tried to save our marriage! And when I kissed Sherlock _yesterday_ , I immediately got back to tell you! I would never have had an affair whilst we were still sharing a bed!”

“Why do you even care? I thought you’d be glad! You don’t have to feel bad for fucking Sherlock, now that you know I’m off enjoying myself, too. Would you rather wish for me to be alone, whilst you’re having the time of your life with your soulmate?”

“That’s not what I was thinking about.” And it’s true. But now that John _does_ think about it, Mary’s words actually make some sort of sense. If he had left her to be alone, he would have waited a decent amount of time before he pursued anything with Sherlock. He would’ve felt a hundred times worse, knowing that Mary was heart-broken and alone and miserable. He wouldn’t have run off into Sherlock’s open arms. It would’ve killed him, but John’s not the type of person to jump from one partner to the next. Now, however, he knows that Mary’s not alone, and definitely not miserable either. At least this way, he can screw being nice and waiting a decent amount of time because his wife just diminished that time to zero. 

He stares up at Mary, who’s still looking down on him with her arms crossed. So this is how his marriage will end, after all. A ten minute conversation in their kitchen, and it’s over.

“You know what – you’re right! You’re absolutely right…” He gets up from the chair and crosses the kitchen with large steps.

He turns around to Mary once more. “I’m glad you’re over us already.”

“What are you doing?” Mary calls after him.

“I’m leaving. There’s someone I need to see.” 

With that, he takes his still unpacked luggage into one hand and his coat into the other, and slams the door shut.

26 minutes later, he arrives at Baker Street, his heart hammering in his chest. He uses his key without caring to knock first, and breathlessly storms into Sherlock’s flat. He doesn’t have the slightest idea of what he’s going to say, but he knows this is the only place on earth he wants to be. 

He enters the empty kitchen and calls for Sherlock, supposing he might be taking a shower, but the bathroom is empty. He knocks on his bedroom door and enters quietly when there’s no answer, but there’s no sign of a sleeping Sherlock either. Hectically, he runs upstairs to Sherlock’s spare bedroom (which he uses for his experiments), but it’s empty as well. He jogs down the stairs and finally, lastly, checks the living room. He feels his heart clench unwillingly at Sherlock’s absence. 

John stays still in the middle of the room, unsure how to proceed. Maybe Sherlock went to Bart’s for another experiment, Greg needed his assistance at a crime scene, Mrs. Hudson went out to buy the groceries with him, or Mycroft decided to finally engage in a brotherly activity – there are a million possible explanations for his absence. For some reason, though, John knows that neither of them are correct. 

He steps further into the room, staring at Sherlock’s empty chair for a second. He only notices the letter in the corner of his eyes once he turns back around.

With a shaking hand, he reaches for the envelope addressed to him and sits down in his armchair. He reads the words, then reads them again, but it isn’t until the third time that their meaning fully unfolds. There’s a single tear rolling down his face, falling onto the page and leaving a stamp on the very last sentence. He feels like throwing up, like laughing, screaming and crying all at once. He’s been such an idiot. How could he ever have doubted Sherlock’s feelings for him? And why didn’t he realise his own sooner? 

There’s a flood of emotions threatening to drown John – relief, sadness, regret, love, confusion, worry – but he pushes them all aside. The only logical next step is to contact Sherlock and tell him what idiots they’ve both been, clear up the misunderstanding and ask Sherlock to come home. He fishes for his phone and calls Sherlock but finds it on the living room desk. He must’ve left it there on purpose. John picks up the phone, but it’s turned off and password-protected. John proceeds to call Molly, then Greg, but they both don’t seem to know anything. Reluctantly, he calls Mycroft.

“Mycroft? Do you know where he is?”

“Hello to you, too, Dr. Watson.”

“I don’t have time for this! Is he with you? I need to talk to him – it’s urgent.”

“I’m assuming it’s my brother you’re talking about?”

“Yes!”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Sherlock’s not in the country anymore.”

“Jesus! Look, Mycroft, there’s been a misunderstanding, I need to talk to Sherlock immediately! Do you know where he is?”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Watson, but my brother’s instructions were very clear. He doesn’t want either of us to contact him. I was informed, however, that he left you a _note_ of some sort,” Mycroft replies. 

John inhales deeply, trying to stop himself from saying something he might regret later. “He did, but he’s wrong! Where is he, Mycroft, please?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone. “He’s doing undercover work abroad, John.” At the mention of John’s first name, Mycroft tone shifts. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t help you. I don’t have an address or number – the mission is entirely anonymous.”

John stares into the distance, not knowing what to say. It can’t end like this, it just can’t.

“My brother doesn’t do anything half-heartedly, as you should know. He told me that if you were to contact me, I should tell you that he doesn’t wish for you to search him.”

“But I…”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Watson. I’m sure he’ll return to London eventually. He left his heart in the city, after all. In the meantime, I wish you all the best.”

He hangs up before John has the chance to reply.

____  
 _August 2011_  
Sherlock sits down in the restaurant of the country house hotel he’s been calling his home for the last two weeks. He likes it here; likes the cosy atmosphere of the interior combined with the stunning scenery of the Austrian Alps outside. 

The past two weeks were a much needed holiday for him, after finally solving who was behind the planned terrorist attack to the Austrian parliament. His physical wounds started to heal, while his emotional wounds continued to bleed. The mission provided somewhat of a distraction, causing the pain to slowly turn numb in his veins. Now, however, without terrorists and captors and murderers by his side, Sherlock finds himself lost in memories all the time. Memories that keep flooding his mind almost every waking moment; and haunt him likewise in his dreams. 

“ _Was darf ich Ihnen bringen?_ ” 

Sherlock didn’t even notice the waitress appearing at his table. She’s a young woman wearing a so-called _Dirndl_ (a ridiculous attempt at keeping a dying tradition alive, in Sherlock’s opinion), and she’s smiling at him expectantly.

“Einen Kaffee, bitte,” he replies before staring out of the window again. 

The last fourteen days, he’s been trying to figure out where to go next. He didn’t feel like contacting Mycroft right after solving the case to ask him to be sent to another mission. He hasn’t been in touch with his brother for six months, and he can’t say that he’s been missing the condescending voice. He could stay at the hotel for a bit longer to take some time off, but the boredom has already started to creep back into his life. If he wants to distract himself from London and its inhabitants, he needs to get hold off a case sooner than later.

Either way, he has an almost free choice of location, even though there’s one place Sherlock can’t go to – the place where his heart desperately wants to lead him. His fate is a cruel one – the only place in the world where he wants to be is the one he can never return to. If he could, he’d fly back to London within the blink of an eye.

The waitress brings him his coffee before disappearing into one of the adjacent restaurant areas. The whole hotel is a building complex consisting of a large restaurant with several bars and two additional hotel buildings. There’s an underground floor connecting the restaurant area to the remaining buildings and to the spa area. From the spa area one has a marvelous view over the infamous mountain called ‘Sleeping Witch’, whose name is based on its shape that looks like a sleeping woman with a hooked nose. 

Sherlock knows that he would love it here. If he hadn’t made that fatal mistake all those months ago, maybe they could’ve come here together sometime. They could’ve gone for a hike in the mountains or for a trip to Salzburg, Mozart’s place of birth. But it probably would have happened anyway, because Sherlock doesn’t know for how long he would’ve been able to keep up the façade. At this – what others might call – romantic hotel, far away from home, he isn’t sure what further damage he might have done.

Sherlock takes a sip from his coffee when the couple on the neighbouring table catches his attention. They seem to be fairly young spouses, probably spending their honeymoon at this hotel. Their eyes are glued at each other, and the man is holding his wife’s hand like it’s the most delicate thing in the world. A knot tightens in Sherlock’s chest at the sight. Their gestures are so intimate and so filled with love that it’s almost painful to watch; and it’s definitely something Sherlock never imagined he’d ever long for. He knows now that it’s something he’ll never have.

He finishes his coffee as quickly as possible and storms out of the restaurant, desperate to get some air. Should he buy a pack of cigarettes? There’s no one here to stop him. He briefly considers getting hold of a bit of cocaine, but the memory of the look on his face when finding out about Sherlock’s past with recreational drugs stops him. 

How preposterous. 

Even though there are 1276,21 kilometers between them, he still has a hold on Sherlock’s actions. At the beginning, it was hard. After a couple of months, it was even harder. Sherlock had anticipated that the pain would subside, much in accordance with the saying that time can heal any wound, but that apparently doesn’t apply to soulmates. In February of last year, Sherlock thought that he couldn’t possibly be more miserable, but he was proven wrong for the second time in his life. Thinking about him and what he might be doing with his wonderful wife hurt so badly that Sherlock _had_ to stop. During the day he focused all his attention to the mission, but at night he was plagued with the worst kind of dreams – the ones that you know can never come true. 

But with the case wrapped and the terrorists behind closed doors, Sherlock doesn’t have enough of a distractor to stop his mind from wandering back to London, to him. Upon waking, his face is the first thing he sees. At night, in the dark hotel room, the name he never dares to think of during the day is the only thing he can think of. Sherlock sometimes wonders whether he has similar experiences, but he never dared to exploit their connection and sense how he’s doing. He’s not even sure whether it would work from such distance. 

Sherlock tightens the grip on the monocular telescope in his coat pocket. For some reason the cold metal has a comforting effect. He desperately needs a case, so he takes out the phone he bought yesterday on a whim and calls Mycroft before he has the chance to make up his mind.

“Yes?”

“Hello, brother.”

“Sherlock!” The surprise in Mycroft’s voice sounds earnest. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”

“Is that so? You know I’m quicker than most people.”

“Well, that certainly seems to be true. How was your – holiday?”

“Oh, it was very nice. Although I didn’t get to see as much sunlight as one might expect,” Sherlock replies. The two of them have always been like this, using sarcasm to overplay awkwardness.

“I suppose that’s good, considering your tendency to get sunburns so easily. But I’m afraid we don’t have much time to catch up. Your call is actually a tremendous coincidence…” His brother makes an expectant pause. “… seeing as your help is required elsewhere.”

“Oh for god’s sake, don’t you have your minions to help you out, Mycroft?”

“Not with this case.”

“Am I not allowed to have some time off?”

“You’ve already had your time off, otherwise you wouldn’t have called, brother dear.”

“Fine!” Sherlock replies with resignation. “What do you need my help for?”

“I was informed that we are to expect a terrorist strike… in London.”

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat. 

_John_

“One of our best man died getting the information to us. There is an underground terror cell at work in the city,” Mycroft continues.

“And you’re only telling me now?!”

“How exactly was I supposed to tell you sooner?”

“Is he fine? Did anything happen to him?

“He’s fine. We haven’t been in touch, but I kept a weathering eye on him.”

The knot in Sherlock’s chest finally seems to loosen a bit. 

“I know you didn’t plan on returning, but London – and every Londoner’s life – is at stake. I thought you might want to take the case yourself,” his brother says.

Sherlock replies without a second thought. With John’s life on the line, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do. “I’ll come back and I will find your underground terror cell.” His voice is firm, but he’s shaking inside.

“I knew you’d help. If you tell me your location I can send someone.”

“I’m staying at the _Grünauer Hof_ in a village close to Salzburg. They can pick me up anytime.”

“Fine. I’ll see you later, brother mine.”

And just like that, the moment Sherlock desperately longed for, feared with all his heart and was sure would never occur, has arrived. He stays in the courtyard with his phone in hand, and for a moment he sees himself in a different courtyard with John; a moment he has replayed a million times in his mind already, but instead of the usual pain he feels something a lot more dangerous blossoming inside of him. 

Hope.

____

John is sitting in the filled subway, stretching out his legs to ease the pain of a long day at work. He starts massaging his temples in an attempt to stop the growing headache, but he’ll probably have to take a pain killer once he gets home. _Home._ It still feels weird to call 221B home, even after half a year. The flat felt much more like home when he wasn’t living there but Sherlock was. 

He clears his throat. A woman sitting across from him gives him a gorgeous smile. She raises an eyebrow expectantly, probably trying to flirt with John, so he politely returns the smile before looking away. His divorce has gone through a couple of months ago, in May, feeling even more rushed than his marriage, but he’s certainly not looking for a new partner. He knows that he’ll never be as happy as he was with Sherlock, and he has no desire to be with anyone else. 

If he has to, he will wait a lifetime for his return. 

Still, he has no regrets. He has come to terms with the fact that he’s unlikely to ever be in a relationship again; and the realisation felt almost liberating. 

When he came to Baker Street that evening in February and couldn’t find Sherlock, he decided to stay. Firstly, because he knew that if Sherlock made up his mind and returned, he’d come back to his flat. Secondly, because he had nowhere else to go. He could’ve stayed at a hotel until he found a suitable flat, but he simply didn’t want to leave the only place where he could still feel Sherlock’s presence. Mrs. Hudson offered him to rent the flat for himself when she found out about Sherlock’s disappearance and John’s and Mary’s separation, and John agreed willingly. He has been staying in the upstairs bedroom ever since, not daring to sleep in Sherlock’s bed. 

He didn’t change much in the flat, only added a couple of his things to the bedroom. This way, it still seems as if Sherlock lives there. After the first couple of weeks, however, Sherlock’s scents started to dissolve, causing John to cross the boundaries of privacy and opening Sherlock’s wardrobe one desperate Sunday afternoon. At first, he only breathed in the distinct mixture of washing powder and Sherlock’s cologne before closing the doors abruptly, feeling ashamed of himself. Then, when the pain became too unbearable, he started to touch the silky dressing gowns inside, letting the soft fabric run through his hands like liquid. Now, he finds himself taking one of Sherlock’s closing items out of the wardrobe in order to smell them properly more frequently than he’d ever admit. But even the clothing scents decreased over time, and the only things left from Sherlock are his items themselves. John has been clinging onto them like a squirrel to its last nut; he already finished half of Sherlock’s science magazines, even though he regularly falls asleep whilst reading.

The robot voice in the subway announces his stop, so John gets up from his seat, feeling the woman’s eyes on him. He takes the stairs of the station and quickly walks over to the flat, his head pounding with every step. Lately, the migraine has gotten considerably worse, but John isn’t sure whether he can blame that on Sherlock’s absence. 

He still sees Mary at work four days a week, and her resentment and anger towards him definitely aren’t fading. He’s been trying to deal with their situation professionally but getting through the divorce with his dignity still intact wasn’t easy. In order to wrap it up as quickly as possible, they had to base their cause of separation on the fact that John left his wife for his person (in which case the reason for the divorce is outside of the parties’ control), causing him to be the bad guy. He got used to the condescending looks thrown his way at work pretty quickly, but he’s not sure he would’ve survived Sherlock’s absence and the divorce without Mike and Greg by his side. He can only begin to imagine how Sherlock must feel without anyone to comfort him, but then again it was his choice to leave in the first place.

With a frustrated sigh, John enters the flat and looks for Mrs. Hudson, who doesn’t seem to be home, before he goes upstairs to take a pain killer. He usually spends his evenings with crap telly or reading, the structure of his daily routine providing him with tasks after work that make his free time more bearable. He heads towards the fridge without reading the piece of paper clung onto it. He reads the letter every morning after getting up, the words of Sherlock never failing to calm his racing mind. He heats up the remains of the take-away he got yesterday and sits down on the kitchen table, picking at the chicken breast. There won’t be anything of interest on the TV tonight, so he sits down in his armchair after dinner with one of Sherlock’s Agatha Christie novels. He skims through several pages but his thoughts start to drift off to Sherlock again. 

Today has been a particularly rough day, for no apparent reason. It’s always Russian roulette for John in the mornings, whether he’ll wake up from a dreamless night or with a wet face and the haunted memory of Sherlock’s lips on his. Most of the time, he manages to push aside the flood of emotions until he finishes work, but sometimes he doesn’t even manage to get out of bed. It’s on these days that the frustration he feels turns into anger towards the person who’s responsible, beside himself, for his misery.

There’s a noise on the streets causing John to turn towards the window. He gets up and stares outside, the low summer sun warming up his face even from afar. He briefly closes his eyes against the blinding light and doesn’t even notice the steps on the staircase.

“John?”

The voice cuts through the quiet air like a blade, and John’s knees turn weak at the deep baritone he’d recognise under a thousand. 

He turns around and gasps for air. Sherlock is standing in the doorway, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly parted. He’s staring at John intensely, the surprise written all over his face, not daring to speak. He looks almost like the last time John saw him, although a bit thinner, but as beautiful as ever.

John slowly awakes from his stare. Sherlock, his best friend, his person and the love of his life, is here in the flesh. After all the sleepless nights, his only wish finally came true. 

He practically jumps forward, only managing to murmur a quiet “Sherl– “ before enveloping him in a tight hug. Once he touches Sherlock and realises that the man in his arms is not an illusion, he gets even closer, taking in the distinct scent he’s been trying so hard to prevail. Sherlock’s muscles seem to respond automatically, as he leans forward and closes his arms around John. Sherlock’s body feels alarmingly slim. John feels the burning anticipation of tears but he doesn’t care. All that matters is that Sherlock has come home.

They must have been standing like this for a while, enveloped in each others’ arms, John’s head leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock’s head slightly resting on John’s, before they finally part.

“I’m sorry, John, I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Sherlock whispers. John can see that his hand is trembling.

“What… how… where have you been?!” John asks, taking a step back to study Sherlock’s appearance properly.

“I was abroad, as I told you. I did some undercover work in Austria,” he replies, his voice firmer now.

“Austria?”

“Yes. I infiltrated an undercover organisation that planned to blow up the Austrian parliament and intended to blame it on the UK. There were a lot of Japanese involved, ironically, but I don’t want to bore you with the details.” Sherlock smirks.

“And why did you return?” John tries to ignore the shaking in his voice. It must be the endorphin. His heart is beating so loud he’s sure Sherlock can hear it.

_For you._ he wants Sherlock to say. His gaze wanders down to Sherlock’s lips, and he has to physically stop himself from just stepping forward and kissing him.

“There’s an underground terror cell planning a strike on London,” Sherlock says instead. 

“Oh.”

“I called Mycroft yesterday and he told me about it. Otherwise I would never have returned, I swear,” he continues, staring at John with an unreadable expression.

“Is that so?” John feels the warmth in his chest slowly fading.

“Yes, of course. I promised you I wouldn’t, but I couldn’t possibly turn down this case. I hope you understand.”

“Yes, I think I do,” John replies, but his voice sounds strange. This is not how he imagined their first conversation to go at all. 

“What are you doing at Baker Street?” Sherlock asks, and then, when John doesn’t reply, “Are you mad at me for returning?” 

“Mad at you for returning?! No, no Sherlock. I’m mad at you for leaving!” 

The frustration of the last months is suddenly back. All John did day in day out for the last six months was wishing for their reunion, and yet here Sherlock is telling him he wouldn’t have returned at all if it wasn’t for a potential terrorist attack. It doesn’t make any sense, but maybe Sherlock’s feelings subsided over time. Maybe he’s over John.

“I don’t understand…”

“You really didn’t want to come back, did you? So what happens when the case is solved, will you run away again? Maybe Italy, this time?”

“I didn’t run –“

“Yes, you did! You left me, Sherlock!” 

There’s a pause during which Sherlock just stares at him. John clenches and unclenches his left hand, looking at the floor.   
“But I only did what’s best for you and Mary,” Sherlock replies after a while. He really doesn’t seem to understand, which only makes John more furious. 

“You had no right to make that decision for me… for us! You didn’t give me a chance to explain, not even a single minute to stop you, to talk to you!”

“John, I’m sorry. I made a huge mistake that night in Dartmoor. I had no right to… but I – like I said, I lost all control. I hope you’ll forgive me one day.” 

“Forgive you for what happened in Dartmoor, or for leaving me?”

For a second, Sherlock seems speechless. “What do you mean…”

“You ran away, Sherlock, leaving me behind. You never even asked how I feel,” John stops, because he feels his voice breaking.

“But I thought –“

“That’s exactly the problem, Sherlock. _You_ thought, but you didn’t give _me_ a choice.”

“John, I…”

They are interrupted by the door flying open to reveal Greg. John stares at him angrily, but the detective seems out of breath, carrying a laptop under his arm and unaware that he’s interrupting an important conversation.

“Ah, you’re both here, that’s great. Sherlock, I’m glad you’re back,” he says, turning towards Sherlock and giving his shoulder a light squeeze. He shares a knowing look with John before continuing, “Your brother told me I’d find you here.”

“He informed me about the underground network. I do hope you’ve got a useful lead,” Sherlock replies, his tone as tense as the atmosphere in the room.

“Trust me, mate, I do. And it’s pretty urgent so…” 

Without waiting for a reply, he walks over to the living room table and opens the laptop. John follows him, trying to keep his composure. Greg presses play on a surveillance tape that shows a passenger entering a tube at Westminster. The next footage is the train arriving at St. James’s Park, completely empty. John is standing next to Sherlock, their eyes locked on the screen. Greg pauses the video on the passenger’s face.

“That’s Lord Moran, Minister for Overseas Development,” he explains. 

“Yes,” John says, suddenly recognising the man’s face. 

“He’s been working with North Korea since 1996,” the DI adds.

“What?” John shouldn’t even be surprised anymore.

“So the passenger disappeared in the tube from Westminster to St. James’s Park. There’s nowhere he could have gone off?” Sherlock asks.

“No,” Greg says, crossing his arms. “There are no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels, the train never stops. But somehow this bloke got off. And there’s more… the driver of the train hasn’t been to work since; according to his flatmate, he’s on holiday.”

“He can’t just vanish.” Sherlock starts pacing the room. “There’s something, something I’m missing. Something that’s staring me in the face,” he murmurs more to himself than to either of them.

“But what does it have to do with the terrorist attack?” John asks.

“He’s one of the men on our list,” Greg replies, fishing for a piece of paper in his coat pocket. He hands it to John. “If any of these people behave suspiciously, we need to react immediately.”

John looks over at Sherlock, who’s still pacing the room, apparently deep in thought.

“Any idea who they are, this underground network? Al-Quaeda; the IRA have been getting restless again. Maybe they’re gonna make an appearance…”

“Yes, yes, yes, YES! That’s good, that could be brilliant!” Sherlock interrupts. “It’s not an underground network, John. It’s an UNDERGROUND network.”

“Right… what?” He looks over to Greg, who seems just as confused.

“Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

“Look.” He comes back over to the table and presses play, pointing at the laptop. “Seven carriages leave Westminster, but only six carriages arrive at St. James’s Park. The entire tube compartment disappeared. The driver must have diverted the train and then detached the last carriage.”

“Detached it where? Greg said there was nothing between those stations.”

“Not on the maps, but once you eliminate the impossible, the only thing remaining must be the truth.” He stares at John again, when all of a sudden his face lights up. “Sumatra Road. It’s a station that never got built on the surface. They did the platforms, even the staircases, but it got tied up in legal disputes.”

“But why detach it in the first place?” Greg intervenes.

“It vanishes between these two stations; Lord Moran vanishes the same day…” he stops, apparently having solved the puzzle. He turns towards John, ignoring Greg completely.

“What’s the date, John?” 

“Hmm? It’s August the 20th,” he replies. The date has been on John’s mind for weeks, because whenever he turned on the news lately… _Oh my god._

He looks up at Sherlock’s beaming eyes when it clicks. 

“What’s going on, guys?” 

“Lord Moran disappears the same day the Parliament votes on the new anti-terrorism Bill. It’s been on the news for weeks, even in Austria, Lestrade. But seeing as you got back into trouble with your wife, it’s no wonder you didn’t catch it. There’s an all-night sitting tonight in the House of Parliament,” Sherlock explains.

“But Moran won’t be there. Not tonight,” John adds. 

“Oh my god,” Greg repeats John’s thoughts. “Sumatra Road. What time is it? Okay, we still got some time, but we need to hurry. I’ll call back-up from the car.”

John follows the detective outside, the adrenaline once again rushing through his veins. The fight from earlier seems forgotten for the moment, but he can’t help wondering whether Sherlock didn’t notice John’s missing wedding band, or whether he ignored its absence on purpose.

___

They arrive at Sumatra Road fifteen minutes later. Sherlock jogs down the stairs to the station, trying to shift his attention back to the case. What used to be an unspoken law – that a case provides distraction from even his worst addictions – no longer applies. Instead, he found himself thinking about his fight with John during the whole ride over. 

A million questions continue to swirl through his mind: What was John doing at Baker Street? Why was he so angry with Sherlock? Why couldn’t they just continue hugging? How can their reunion feel like the happiest and saddest moment in Sherlock’s life at the same time? And the most pressing question: Why isn’t John wearing his wedding band?

Sherlock quickly ruffles his hands through his hair in order to get his thoughts straight. He glances back at the two men trying to catch up and can’t stop a grin from appearing on his face. How ridiculous. He continues down the steps and around the corner until he finally sees – an empty train station. A frustrated sigh escapes his lips when he hears John and Lestrade finally behind him.

“Where’s the carriage?” John pants. He comes to a halt next to Sherlock, standing way to close and certainly not close enough.

“There are only two possible answers. It’s best if we split up. Lestrade, you go this way,” he says, pointing to the right side of the tunnel, “John and I will take the other way.”

Sherlock extracts the flashlight Lestrade gave him earlier from his coat pocket, aiming the light towards the darkened tunnel. With a quick motion, he jumps down onto the tracks, only stopping because of John’s concerned voice.

“Hang on, Sherlock. Isn’t that live?”

“It’s perfectly save as long as we avoid touching the rails,” he replies, stepping further into the darkness. In the corner of his eyes, he can see John shrugging at Lestrade before they both jump.

Lestrade heads off into the opposite direction, leaving Sherlock to walk through the quiet tunnel with John. They have never been men of many words, sharing comfortable silences with each frequently, but this silence feels different. After not having seen John for so many months, Sherlock wants nothing more than to talk to him. He can hear John clearing his throat, a clear sign of his nervousness, but with a possible blow-up of the London Parliament and hundreds of people dying Sherlock doesn’t feel like it’s the right time to resume their argument.

John sees the carriage before Sherlock does. He touches Sherlock’s arm lightly to inform him, and they start running towards it simultaneously.

Upon first glance, the carriage seems empty but Sherlock quickly discovers the batches of explosives under the seat cushions and the loose floor panel with the main bomb underneath. Apparently, Sherlock was wrong. The carriage isn’t merely filled with explosives, the whole compartment _is_ the bomb. 

He so hates being wrong.

John only manages a couple of nervous breaths, so Sherlock props up the panel against the wall of the train in order to examine it more closely. There’s a countdown clock momentarily frozen at 02:30, so there’s still some time left.

“We need bomb disposal,” John says. His face is white as a sheet and Sherlock silently curses himself for not sending John off with Lestrade.

“There may not be time for that now.”

“So what do we do?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock admits.

“But you’re Sherlock Holmes. You’re as clever as it gets.”

“I don’t know how to defuse a giant bomb. What about you?”

“I don’t know, can’t we… rip the timer off, or something?” 

“That would set it off.”

“See, you know –“ but John’s words are cut off by the lights suddenly turning on. Sherlock stares up at John, who’s looking down at the timer and lets out a groan, his face in shock.

“Oh my god!”

Sherlock forces himself to look away and starts pacing the small compartment. There’s no use in piercing into John’s deep blue eyes now. He needs to focus.

“Er…”

_02:15_

“So we can’t switch the bomb off? And the bomb disposal will be here too late?”

Sherlock thinks, really thinks, and blurts out the only reasonable idea he has. He’d be damned if he let John Watson die in this tube carriage with him. 

“Go, John. Go now.”

“I’m not leaving you. Besides, there’s not enough time to get away, and if we don’t do this other people will die!”

John’s words, ever the brave soldier, putting other peoples’ lives above his own, makes Sherlock’s chest clench uncomfortably.

_01:57_

“Use your mind palace,” John suddenly says. “You’ve salted away every fact under the sun.”

“You think I’ve got ‘How to defuse a bomb’ tucked away in there somewhere?”

“Yes!”

Sherlock thinks about it for a split second. “Maybe.”

He brings his fingers to the sides of his face, screwing his eyes shut. He struggles to go through his mind palace so quickly, but John’s encouraging words help. The folder titled ‘Explosives’ contains all the basic information on different chemicals involved, on the process of creating a bomb from scratch, on the physics Leó Szilárd, Albert Einstein and Eugene Wigner, who basically invented them, and on a case in Switzerland involving the largest amount of explosives ever used for a terrorist attack. There’s nothing on bomb defusal, however.

Sherlock lets out a cry before opening his eyes. John stares at him in disbelief, no words needed to understand Sherlock’s failure.

“Oh my god,” he says again. “This is it.”

Sherlock slumps to his knees frantically, only half aware of the sounds he’s still uttering. He runs his eyes over the bomb again. There must be something he can do; he will _not_ let John die.

_01:29_

“Sherlock, Sherlock, please.”

The pleading tone in John’s voice makes him look up.

“I don’t want to spend my last minutes like this.” There are tears in John’s eyes, and he takes a step forward.

“John, I… I can’t do it. I don’t know how,” Sherlock admits, still on the floor. “Forgive me, John.”

“What?”

“Please, John, forgive me… for all the hurt that I caused you.” Sherlock folds his hands together, practically begging now. If John is really going to die, he needs to know that Sherlock has regretted leaving him the moment he shut the Inn door in Dartmoor.

John’s voice is low when he speaks. “I wanted you to stay, Sherlock. When we kissed everything changed. I left Mary.”

Sherlock’s heart stops, trying to take in the information he was so scared to deduce earlier, but he doesn’t dare to speak.

_01:15_

John lowers his head for a second, swallowing hard. “Look, I find it difficult this sort of stuff.”

“I know.”

“When you wrote in your letter that you wanted me to be with the person who truly makes me happy, you didn’t realise…” He stops to take a deep breath. “You are that person, Sherlock.”

For a moment Sherlock is sure that he’s dead already, because this must be heaven. Only John is still staring at him with a half smile and a tear rolling down his face, looking a thousand times more beautiful than Sherlock’s deceased mind could ever possibly imagine.

“I love you, Sherlock. I love how you drive everyone around you mad but me; I love your violin playing, your shouting at the telly, your obsession with bees; I love how tender you are with the people you care about; I love your honesty and that you don’t change for others. I love everything about you; even the body parts in your fridge and the messiness in your flat; and I spent the last six months praying for you to come back to me so that I could finally tell you.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John holds up a hand and continues. “This might not be the best timing, I know, but I just had to tell you. I look at you now and I see everything I want in this world. I don’t understand why I ever thought I could be happy with anyone else. I don’t know about your feelings, whether there’s a simple Off switch, because you behaved so differently earlier, but –“

“ – Oh my god, John,” Sherlock interrupts.

_00:29_

He leans down closer to the bomb and starts patting around the device, searching for it. When he finally feels the tiny stick attached to the side of the bomb with his fingers, he lets out a deep breath before clicking it. 

John saved their lives, again.

“An Off switch,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“There’s an Off switch, John.”

John comes closer, bending down to look at the switch. “Jesus!” 

“Terrorists can get into all sorts of problems unless there’s an Off switch,” Sherlock explains. He looks up at John, and suddenly realises that they are _not_ going to die and that John just told him that he loves him six times and that everything Sherlock ever wanted is right in front of him.

Without leaving his eyes from John, he gets up to his full height again and takes a step forward. He swallows hard, and tries to convey with his eyes what any word of the English language would fail to do.

“John… it’s you. It’s always been you. You are every reason, every dream I’ve ever had, and everything I’ve ever needed.”

All of a sudden John comes closer, his expression shifted from relief to something different, something that makes Sherlocks knees turn weak again. The blue in John’s eyes is so deep that Sherlock is on the verge of getting lost in them, but then John licks his lips, causing Sherlock’s eyes to shoot down. Without another thought, Sherlock closes the remaining distance between them and kisses John.

Even though he thought it physically impossible, it’s even better than the last time, because now there’s nothing holding them back. There are no unspoken words, no guilt, no regret. There is only love, and Sherlock pours it all into the kiss. He tells John with his lips that he missed him so madly, and that he longed to kiss John again the moment their lips parted all those months ago.

The knowledge of John’s love for him threatens to overwhelm Sherlock, but then John brings up a hand to his face and that’s all Sherlock can focus on. They kiss and kiss and kiss, and it’s better than Sherlock could have ever imagined. 

Eventually, they are interrupted by Lestrade, who’s suddenly standing next to them and coughing loudly.

“Guys, you might want to continue this at home where half of Scotland Yard and the bomb disposal department aren’t watching,” he says with a wide grin on his face.

Sherlock rolls his eyes heavily, lets out a frustrated sigh, takes John by the hand and shoves himself past the inspector. 

“Sherlock, we still need your testimony!” Lestrade shouts after them.

“There was a bomb, we switched it off. I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow,” Sherlock replies, already halfway out of the carriage.

“But –“

“Tomorrow!”

Sherlock quickens his steps and tightens the grip on John’s hand. He ignores the surprised faces of the officers outside, relishing the feeling of being John’s sole focus of attention, instead. They hurry back through the tunnels. 

They have so much to catch up on, after all.

____

The cab ride home feels like torture. Neither of them dare to speak, but their eyes are glued together. Sherlock is still holding John’s hand tightly, and John enjoys the warmth spreading from Sherlock’s fingers as well as the tingling that never seems to fade when their hands touch. 

He can’t believe how bloody stupid they both were. They wasted so much time, but in the end it doesn’t even matter. All that matters is that they are finally together.

The cab comes to a halt in front of 221B after an eternity, so John throws some cash at the driver with his free hand and pulls Sherlock out of the cab on his side. He lets go of Sherlock’s hand in order to reach for his keys and suddenly realises that he hasn’t told Sherlock that he lives in his flat, yet.

“Er, Sherlock,” he says whilst opening the door, “there’s something I haven’t told you, yet. I kind of… live here now.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, his face as unreadable as ever.

“I moved in after you left London. I hope you don’t – mind?”

“Of course I don’t mind, John. Wherever I am, I want you there with me,” Sherlock replies with a shrug, as if it wasn’t one of the most romantic things he has ever said to John.

“Okay, that’s…good.” John can’t hide his grin on his way inside. He only manages to take a step forward before he finds himself pressed against the wall by Sherlock.

“I’ve wanted – to do this – for a long time,” Sherlock says in between kisses. John finds that he has never agreed more.

After a while, they stumble up the stairs, still unable to keep their hands off each other. John isn’t sure what he’s supposed to expect, because he doesn’t want to rush anything with Sherlock. He’s not even sure whether Sherlock has got any experiences in this area, or whether he’s interested at all, even though there’s clear evidence of his interest below the waist of his jeans. 

John closes the living room door and uses the short pause to gather up his courage. “Sherlock? You do know we have all the time in the world, right?”

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room, looking utterly lost after John’s words. “Yes.”

“I mean… we can take things slow, is what I’m trying to say,” John adds.

“Is that what you want?” he asks in a bloody seductive voice that cannot possibly be unintentional.

John, taken by surprise, raises an eyebrow. “Not necessarily,” he says, his voice low as well. Sherlock takes a step forward and kisses John again.

“I’ve waited six months for this, John. I don’t have any intention on waiting a minute longer,” he whispers afterwards.

That’s all the confirmation John needs. He leans forward and kisses Sherlock again, more passionate and hungry this time. Sherlock does something with his tongue that sends a jolt of desire through John’s groins. He deepens the kiss and starts unbuttoning the black shirt with practiced fingers. Sherlock pulls the shirt from his arms once the buttons are undone, then proceeds to pull John’s t-shirt over his head. John bends his head forward slightly to kiss Sherlock’s neck, who groans slightly in response, and starts walking them both through the room until Sherlock dips down into the sofa. Without hesitance, John lays down on top of him, so that their chests are touching. He resumes kissing Sherlock’s earlobe and neck, and then starts planting kisses down Sherlock’s torso, wandering further down with every touch.

“You’re… good at this,” Sherlock pants.

John, undoing Sherlock’s belt and unzipping his trousers, grins. “It’s not like I’ve never done it before,” he replies, hoping that Sherlock gets the mirroring of his own words from so long ago.

“I know. It’s unfair that we have uneven premises.”

John looks back up at Sherlock, who’s watching him with flushed cheeks. Suddenly, John feels the need to crawl back up and set something straight.

“Sherlock, any experiences I’ve had, they do not even come close to this.” 

Sherlock blushes, which only encourages him to continue. “I don’t know what this whole soulmate thing is really about, and frankly I don’t care. Whatever our souls are made of, I knew from the moment we met that yours and mine are the same. That’s all that matters.” 

A hand comes up behind his head that gently guides him down, closer to Sherlock’s face. “I felt it, too,” Sherlock says before kissing him.

“So, where were we?” John asks after they part. He slowly crawls back down, then pulls down Sherlock’s trousers and pants with a quick motion, unable to stop a gasp from escaping his lips at the sight of Sherlock’s length.

“God, I want to touch you here,” he whispers before licking the shaft and covering it with his mouth. He can hear Sherlock make a delicious sound of surprise, his hips coming forward involuntarily.

“John, please,” Sherlock grunts. “I want –“

And for some reason John knows exactly what he wants. He stops in his movements, his erection starting to press uncomfortably against his jeans. John gives Sherlock’s length one last kiss before he moves back up, propping himself up on the side of the sofa in order to strip down his remaining clothes. Sherlock, apparently mesmerized by the newly presented data of John’s naked body, stares at John with a burning look in his eyes that pierces right into John’s soul. He presses John closer into the sofa and flips them around, until John finds himself on his back and Sherlock atop of him. 

“Are you taking charge now?” he asks tentatively.

“Yes,” Sherlock says while leaning down without further warning. The feeling of Sherlock’s cock pressed against John’s own is so fantastic John could cry. Sherlock starts to rub and thrust slightly, and John is afraid this will be over sooner than later. 

“Bloody hell, don’t tell me you didn’t practice,” he manages to get out.

“I didn’t,” Sherlock murmurs against his neck, his breath hot against John’s sensitive skin. “I never practice.”

That cheeky bastard, John thinks. 

He turns his head in order to feel Sherlock’s lips on his again, and in that moment he’s sure he’s never really had sex before, because it has never felt like this; like his whole body is about to explode.

Sherlock’s right hand moves away from John’s face slowly, stroking his chest and circling his nipples before gliding down in between their joined bodies. He places his long fingers around their erections, which grips them even closer together, and starts moving his hand in perfect rhythm. John moans, already on the verge of exploding. He barely manages to last a couple of strokes, before – 

“Oh god, Sherlock –“

“John,” Sherlock pants simultaneously, and together they reach the point of culmination. John senses Sherlock’s desire as clearly as his own, multiplying his orgasm in the best of ways. He is sure to see stars behind his closed eye-lids, but he opens them in time to witness the last moments of Sherlock’s climax. 

Sherlock opens his eyes, his pupils blown wide and his expression still filled with lust and desire, and bends down to kiss John again. He lays down next to John on the small sofa, both ignoring the mess they just created. John turns slightly towards Sherlock, unable to keep his eyes off his soulmate. 

Their eyes glued together, Sherlock starts to smile that distinct way that John is sure he’s the only person on earth who has ever been fortunate enough to witness, and he cannot believe how lucky he is.

John doesn’t even remember falling asleep. He wakes up half atop of Sherlock, his head draped against Sherlock’s neck. His curls are tingling John’s cheek, so he props his head up to look at the man underneath him. Sherlock seems to have been awake for some time. John feels a wave of happiness – unsure whether it’s Sherlock’s or his own – flooding him, but he doesn’t care. This time he allows himself to drown in it.

Sherlock grins at him with a tired face, sleepy eyes, flushed cheeks and his hair a post-coital mess, and John doesn’t think he’s ever looked as beautiful. 

“I think I forgot to tell you something earlier,” Sherlock suddenly says.

“What’s that?”

“I love you, John.”

John smiles, even though he feels like his heart is about to jump out of his chest. “I love you, too.”

He leans down to gently kiss Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry for leaving you. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Sherlock continues. 

“I know, and I understand why you did it.”

“You do?”

“Yes. And I’m sorry, too. I should’ve figured it out sooner,” John admits.

“Figured out what?”

“That I’ve loved you for longer than I can remember.”

Sherlock smiles at him, and John knows that he’ll never get enough of it.

“You should get some sleep now,” he tells Sherlock. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The universe is a funny thing, he thinks while watching Sherlock slowly drift off. You meet thousands of people and none of them really touch you. And then you meet one person who touches your soul and changes everything.

***

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, some feedback be greatly appreciated! :)
> 
> The hotel Sherlock stays in actually exists, and it's one of my favourite places on earth. If you ever happen to visit Austria, make sure to go there for dinner at least once; order Kaiserschmarrn; and thank me later.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr here


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